There sat Ben
Turning the pages
Of music he could barely remember
Without disdain
Still itching at the deeply buried drift
Of Holy German Art:
Across the arms of the pianist
Britten and Brahms shadowed each other.
Old Brahms
Unmarried
Unblushingly nostalgic
Wearing his erudition
Like the dowager beard
Of a long dead aunt
Traced his way into haunting sadness
Voiced as compassion and melancholy.
Britten listened
Brahms sang.
Did these folk song memories
‘Down in the valley’ of regret
Find their way into forgiveness
As the Russian giant, Richter
Sat before him
Unfolding these Rosen Blumen and smiling aloud?
Gar Jones - June 2012
Turning the pages
Of music he could barely remember
Without disdain
Still itching at the deeply buried drift
Of Holy German Art:
Across the arms of the pianist
Britten and Brahms shadowed each other.
Old Brahms
Unmarried
Unblushingly nostalgic
Wearing his erudition
Like the dowager beard
Of a long dead aunt
Traced his way into haunting sadness
Voiced as compassion and melancholy.
Britten listened
Brahms sang.
Did these folk song memories
‘Down in the valley’ of regret
Find their way into forgiveness
As the Russian giant, Richter
Sat before him
Unfolding these Rosen Blumen and smiling aloud?
Gar Jones - June 2012