Posted on: April 7, 2008
The Puzzling Constellation
The Plow.
Seal of crueler times,
why do you still turn up
in your perfect, sharp simplicity?
Distant years.
Of wonder, of desire,
of expectation, of disillusion,
of slow-fading, never-forgotten sorrow.
Long-gone scrutinies.
Will you now be the omen of poorer emotions,
of weaker passions, of more diluted pain,
of an uninspired, inconsistent age?
The warning septet.
Never were any setting blacker, any stars neater,
any sign in the night sky more admonishing
than last night. What a calling night!
I wait in amazement as always.
*First published in Italian Americana (RI, USA)
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On Listening To A Piece By Bach
The Triple Concerto does not lie.
Beauty is truth.
Flute, violin, harpsichord, strings
and continuo I had heard before,
but genius was not there—
truth and lie I could not tell apart.
His was the faultless time–
Bach’s, not mine.
I now comprehend,
I now discern when the music is a liar.
Adagio ma non tanto e dolce.
And sweet is to suddenly realize
whatever truth at it,
to know my own mind for good.
The Triple Concerto does not lie.
Nor…
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