 | 02:07 pm
I've gotten the habit of keeping a small notebook in my purse or carryall, and pulling it out when I eat lunch alone -- to write poetry. Some days it isn't worth the ink. Sometimes, though, it works for me. This is how it came out today, after an unexpectedly good quartet session:
Two violins, viola. cello. Begin
at the first phrase, in four. Take the repeats
only in the minuet. Keep the beat
and ignore wrong notes -- mistakes aren't sin
but hamartia, here. Mozart teases
and dances like Haydn, his older friend.
Schubert entangles fingers. Is there an end
to Glazunov's oddities? No reprises.
We read composers' minds, we persevere
despite schedules, arthritis or weather.
Somewhere in the playing sings perfection,
following toe-tapped tacet direction,
measure-bound unmeasured flight together.
Their thoughts. Our playing. Music soaring clear.
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