Archives for posts with tag: Piano Poets

marches, dances,
prances, gymnast
demonstrates power,
agility, flexibility,
grace, endurance;
all within the scale of beauty

stacked harmonies inform everything in Mozart.
running thirds, then again in their inversions;
the constant transformation of melody through transposition
he is a trampoline artist who mid-leap catches your eye

sugar with substance, sensual wine you can live upon;
these words are not enough—
not enough complement to song and substrate,
not rare spirit fine enough to catch gossamer lightness,
instant intoxication and the exultation of the intoxicated

it is drunkness not of the soul, but of music
Mozart plays and enjoins us, effortlessly

so many others offer us joy, play and delight
but first you must climb to them, work for them,
wish with them, and, in some small fashion, surrender

Mozart is a six year old who makes you part of the game
without asking—he demands nothing in return but fun
and drama and light and dark and all the proper ingredients
for delicious thrills, love, enjoyment, entrapment; the wealth
of all imagination, there are no riches he does not possess;
he helps himself to the treasury and scatters it before us,
let us take what we wish, or stop to enjoy for a moment
how the emeralds, pearls, rare and semi-rare jewels
conjoin, entwine with golden hurl; the casual fashion
in which he throws it before us, invites us to share
his flute of champagne

it does not matter to Mozart,
he welcomes each of us over and
over again—with more, always more


Bach makes the frame. All out. All in.
In fact, he doesn’t sketch at all –
he makes the rules. He is not
composing the Well Tempered Clavichord –
he is writing equations, sequences,
occasions, dazzling sequins that define
the fashion, the millinery, the mannequin
He is the triumph of what will come
without showing a stitch.
We ache for melody so much
we cannot help but sing Ave Maria
as if it weren’t already there;
each prelude, each fugue,
tempts us to burst into song
as another lesson plays on.

<this begins the last section of my book Numbers & Piano. Ten poems for poets of the piano. Ten you say? How odd.>

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