Chopin, Played in the Oldest Church within the Walls of Ancient Paris
How sad to think of those who lived before
Romantic music, those who never knew
Strained longing, melodies that seem to pour
Unendingly, that seem to yearn out through
Eternity, stretched out, long, longer than
The length of love, extended like the launch
Of ships for Helen, like the heart of man.
………..
Heart wounds are what they are. Nothing can staunch
Them. Sackbuts and recorders, clavichords
And all those early sounds were tinny, thin,
Too brief. They couldn’t even reach out towards
Demands of trauma in the lover, in
The ribcage, in the chest. That early noise
Could only aim for guilt and God and poise.
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