Glenn Gould In Heaven Does Lament
Here the chipped ivory is only cloud.
The Instrument, too very old, is Archetype.
Strings of gold do not a music make.
A lyre presses sterilely into where once
was crotch.
Crotchless, music is useless here.
So am I. No one listens.
The only passion is the Christ's
and that's all passed.
Crowds are overtaken taking cue
from Hosts Divine with Hosannahs
of obligation clinical:
Holy. Holy. Holy.
I miss Canada.
Cold. Precise. Canada.
Icicles there hear better what is played.
Bitter wind cracks the fingers' skein.
Each note is pain. There's blood.
Let us rejoice what is in scarlet shed.
Let us praise its iron.
Let its oxidation in us reign.
O lead us all to right ruin.
Roll in the coagulate burden then,
the Piano Grand.
Delight the last name, my own, rhymes
with 'wood' almost, a nuance in a minor
key, that from which the Instrument is made.
And my little chair.
Little chair. Hold me, pray.
Let there be, crouched again,
one last time, play and play.
Let knees press close to chest near,
knees there do pray.
All of me is Agency become.
Music there is in fingers latency,
theirs deserve all waking praise.
poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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