Opus 55, No. 1
I'm at the age when times speeds up
as in those descending triplets
not very far from the end.
Chopin wrote the nocturne of my life;
(the key is right: F minor)--
Minutes sum up predatory years:
The melody is Baudelaire's
"little bird singing above the abyss,"
while the bass is Kafka's stickman keeping time.
The middle section (middle age) is furious:
Darkly I ascend and soon come right back down.
The minor bird returns; then an avalanche of notes
chromatically hits bottom--The end is peaceful
but, for me, F major comes too late--
I am finished! She plays it again.
Iodine Review, Fall/Winter, 2012/2013
I was much criticized by an editor-friend (not an editor of Iodine Review) for this poem. I was told that this poem was emblematic of what's wrong with modern poetry: I was being ironic, tearing something down instead of building it up. I was a little shocked by this comment. Anyone who knows me knows that I consider the great works of Bach, Mozart, Chopin, etc. to be among the most sacred works of art we have. Perhaps a few notes of interpretation will help those readers who might think that the editor was not amiss in her stern judgment.
The title should refer to an Aunt Mary, not Aunt Betty, but I liked the sound of the latter, so I chose that name. It refers to Mary, one of the younger sisters in Pride and Prejudice. She is Austin's caricature of the overserious, hyperemotional adolescent, She loves to play "serious music" on the piano for anyone who will listen; she, however, has little talent and what talent she has is sabotaged by the belief that "overdoing it" expresses both the profundity of the music and that of her soul. (I am referring here to the portrayal of Mary in the splendid BBC adaption of Austin's novel.)
I imagine in this poem that Aunt Betty (Mary) has become an eccentric old maid.
The poem follows the course of the great Chopin nocturne very closely; the details will be apparent to anyone familiar with the piece. One assumes that she, with much self-pity, has been declaring "I am finished" her entire life. But she plays it again; she obviously enjoys feeling sorry for herself. (One assumes that this feeling of enjoyment is not seconded by her family and friends.)
As you might guess, I was being ironic with myself in the piece, and certainly not with the great Polish master. When depressed, I often played Chopin (the pieces of his that I was able to play) and songs from Schubert's paean to depression, die Winterreise. I would try to get great emotional effects from every note, often taking ridiculous liberties with the music. Now I realize that even sad music is still music, a positive thing which, as any art form, must first entertain. (I was always well aware of this when it comes to poetry. Aunt Betties don't get published.) You must respect the forward drive of a piece and not try to create an emotional high point in every measure. You must always think of the music's effect on the listener. Even if a piece portrays an emotional state that brings to mind a dry riverbed, music must still flow.
I composed this poem so that its sounds and meaning please the reader; at least that was my intent. But it was also a poem of self-therapy, and, believe me--music-wise and otherwise--it worked.
Dorsett's blogs:
thomasdorsett.blogspot.com
thomasdorsettpoetry.blogspot.com
bachlittlepreludesandfugues.blogspot.com
dorsetttranslation.blogspot.com
