*In memory of
Patric Standford
1939 - 2014*
It looks so insubstantial this score,
its opening notes and rhythms
surrounded by a weight of silences,
empty bars where the players rest,
in anticipation, in limbo, rest,
while their colleagues bow and blow
‘in serene cheerfulnesss’,
or so I imagine Hanslick will write
after the premiere. He will say
it is ‘manly but gentle,
animated by good humour
and reflected seriousness’.
What tosh!
And I will say, when I write
to Fritz my publisher,
- and I shall be ironic of course -
‘It is a work of a darker hue,
meditative rather than tragic,
but full of grace and charm.’
Walking the lakeside
at Pörtschach by the Wörthersee
I think all these words and more,
ahead of the notes I shall write here
in my simple room in the Hauptstraße
where today my piano arrived,
to be miraculously tuned
by Herr Grabner’s daughter,
a shy girl, barely sixteen he says
and blind, to my gruff presence
certainly, her small hands,
barely able to stretch the octave,
play at her father’s behest,
my Wiegenlied.
*. . .
Schlaf nun selig und süß,
schau im Traum′s Paradies.*
Ah, that this, indeed, might be so.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
*In memory of
Patric Standford
1939 - 2014*
It looks so insubstantial this score,
its opening notes and rhythms
surrounded by a weight of silences,
empty bars where the players rest,
in anticipation, in limbo, rest,
while their colleagues bow and blow
‘in serene cheerfulnesss’,
or so I imagine Hanslick will write
after the premiere. He will say
it is ‘manly but gentle,
animated by good humour
and reflected seriousness’.
What tosh!
And I will say, when I write
to Fritz my publisher,
- and I shall be ironic of course -
‘It is a work of a darker hue,
meditative rather than tragic,
but full of grace and charm.’
Walking the lakeside
at Pörtschach by the Wörthersee
I think all these words and more,
ahead of the notes I shall write here
in my simple room in the Hauptstraße
where today my piano arrived,
to be miraculously tuned
by Herr Grabner’s daughter,
a shy girl, barely sixteen he says
and blind, to my gruff presence
certainly, her small hands,
barely able to stretch the octave,
play at her father’s behest,
my Wiegenlied.
*. . .
Schlaf nun selig und süß,
schau im Traum′s Paradies.*
Ah, that this, indeed, might be so.
. . . Sleep now blissfully and sweetly,
see the paradise in your dreams.
Request permission to use this poem