February 2022
Robert Wexelblatt
wexelblatt@verizon.net
wexelblatt@verizon.net
Bio Note: I live near Boston and teach at Boston University, though only if somebody learns.
Author's Note: I sometimes write to music without which, Nietzsche claimed, life would be a mistake. Life can also go wrong with music too, of course. Good music doesn’t make what I write better but probably can’t make it worse. Berg, Corelli, Handel, and Mendelssohn were all born in February. So, here are two poems about music this month.
Author's Note: I sometimes write to music without which, Nietzsche claimed, life would be a mistake. Life can also go wrong with music too, of course. Good music doesn’t make what I write better but probably can’t make it worse. Berg, Corelli, Handel, and Mendelssohn were all born in February. So, here are two poems about music this month.
A Concerto
the hero bellows against the mob
square peg scraping at round holes
discord out of the one and many
concord from the many and one
a child noisily rebelling as
the indulgent adults play along
declaiming, dancing a protest
while the others obediently cavort
help me he cries and they succor
fight me and they strive
join me and they synchronize
adore me he pleads and they do
erecting massive mansions and
bizarre bridges bar by bar
they let him show off, resting
while his cadenza crazily soars
they hum a silent prayer as
the solitary rises solemnly aloft
a journey like a romance or war
or life tick-tocking to diapason
modulation to fugato then
helter-skelter presto until
all are spent, unanimous in
stillness. Only then, applause.
Mahler's Last
The music of death goes slow, is
deep; low moaning cellos beneath
a sinking sun, red as a scab,
hold up the occasional horn
cruelly denting warm farewells
with sarcastic scorn.
Saying adieux that last too long
risk the stench of sentiment,
casting Herakles for Hamlet,
scared by the slow mournful bars,
we hasten to speed the silence
with our quick guitars.
©2022 Robert Wexelblatt
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