I find myself posting this poem at the end of January – the 27th, Holocaust Memorial Day.
So much has been said, dwelt upon and shown – absolutely rightly – about this particular eightieth anniversary.
I offer here a description of a solitary player of music at that place – music, the most abstract of all the arts. It could be suggested paradoxically that the abstract may not represent the worst way to approach the most real, most grounded of events.
I don't know.
I do know that February, and life itself, lies ahead, for which I give thanks.
Perhaps it's best that no more be said now.
Double Sarabande in 9/8
from Bach’s Partita No. 2 in D minor for Solo Violin
Before he began there was silence.
Now as he follows the lines
the Sarabande accompanies him.
He proceeds with care placing his feet
upon those old sleepers sunken and soaked
avoiding the ballast and cinders.
The quavers are harnessed in triplets
rising and falling as they were instructed
a long time ago.
Boxed up in its bar lines each group is ordered
apart but sequential dependent upon
what happened before.
The rails run on like lines on the stave
to their vanishing point when silence resumes.
But the music continues
each section repeated though different.
And so he walks on still watching his step
giving life to those dots
which woken a moment die as they live
to give way to the next. He plays on
while advancing
leaving no trace. Still watching his step
he approaches the end where the gate
of a double bar waits.
A broken B minor two octave chord
ascends in the air to vanish like smoke.
My first thought was Handel equally appropriate
ReplyDeleteVery poignant. Thank you
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