Jul 2018
I said it was not meant for me,
But what did I mean?
For any youth, any love,
Whose prey who might be,
On whom you’d lean,
In your semi-corseted skirt,
Or dressed full fig.,
Stalking into town,
Shocking men in wigs,
Luring them into false love,
As others had been?
Would you capture me,
Chaining my soul to your heart,
So I must carry on playing
At your command?
I see your dress under the piano,
And your boots and pantaloons;
The piano is not my voice,
Though you insist it is.
I shot a drunken man for you,
Which made me more your slave.
You woke urges I suppressed,
Too strong for one so frail.
With words you pushed me
But caused music to pour
From me as love did.
A storm of disapproval raged all round
Our Paris nest of love and art,
You came and went like a soldier, shielding us,
And at home you urged me on,
To impromptu inventions,
Yet causing us to depart.
Packed into a cabochon,
You shanghaied me,
Away to Majorca
And the wintry sea.
Your searing love and the island’s cold
Were too much for me,
And I escaped with my art.
But what did I mean?
For any youth, any love,
Whose prey who might be,
On whom you’d lean,
In your semi-corseted skirt,
Or dressed full fig.,
Stalking into town,
Shocking men in wigs,
Luring them into false love,
As others had been?
Would you capture me,
Chaining my soul to your heart,
So I must carry on playing
At your command?
I see your dress under the piano,
And your boots and pantaloons;
The piano is not my voice,
Though you insist it is.
I shot a drunken man for you,
Which made me more your slave.
You woke urges I suppressed,
Too strong for one so frail.
With words you pushed me
But caused music to pour
From me as love did.
A storm of disapproval raged all round
Our Paris nest of love and art,
You came and went like a soldier, shielding us,
And at home you urged me on,
To impromptu inventions,
Yet causing us to depart.
Packed into a cabochon,
You shanghaied me,
Away to Majorca
And the wintry sea.
Your searing love and the island’s cold
Were too much for me,
And I escaped with my art.
This was inspired by the film "Impromptu", about the affair between Frederic Chopin and the writer, George Sand, or Armandine Aurore Lucille Dupin. She had many lovers, mostly other writers and artists. Her love for Chopin was excessive and she pursued him aggressively. Once they became lovers, she insisted that his illness (tuberculosis) was due to lack of activity and fresh air and kept luring him out of his little apartment. He supposedly had a duel with her latest lover, but fainted, George picked up his gun and shot the lover, not fatally. She convinced Chopin that it was he who had wounded the man, then overcome by his violence, he had passed out. This seemed to make him feel more manly and open to seeing himself as a ****** being and not just a frail ghost. She and Chopin were together for ten years, but when she took him to Majorca for a year, things did not go well and he left. Mind you, I'm talking about the film, not an actual event, though it may have happened. Hugh Grant played Chopin and Judy Davis was a great George Sand.
