Saturday, October 15, 2011

ephemeron


you enter a small, locked room. there are no windows and
the air lacks imagination.  you place scores--bach, beethoven, rachmaninov--
on the music stand and sit carefully upon the black leather bench 
(an artist's bench).
                      artist:  seek their inspirations--bach, beethoven, rachmaninov--
in this uninspiring room.  your work is placing your fingers upon the keys
day after day after day:

excite the current
wash and wring the unimaginative air within the whorl of your ear
(frustrate your already frustated mind, gauging weight and pacing lines),
work for weeks to sift through the alluvium of sound
and pan for sparkling, golden tones.

in the end, present the glorious work, but realize this:
only the clearest-eared will hear and shrewdly explain while the hungry rest
make you a god-for-five-minutes and clamor maddeningly to bask and congratulate.  

bear the moment while you can and then return to a small, locked, windowless room.  your
work is placing your fingers upon the keys day after day after day.

it will be cold there, too separate from whatever sun warms the world outside
that heavy, lonely door.

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