Orchestra

Musicians are made of music,

As though there exists a music gene.

For accomplished artists, it's no trick,

But benefit of exquisite training.

You feel the presence of votive force.

The notes, even the shaping of line,

Are pleasing, like a poem's off-rhyme,

But talent, not music, is their source.

The players make of air a force

That governs the fluidity of time.

They understand that beauty is fleeting,

That this song, now, is their only chance,

That perfection seldom knows repeating,

And thrust at our hearts like a lance.

Musical Fête (Giovanni Paolo Pannini), Sonnet #402

Angels with trumpets adorn the valance

Above the apex of the proscenium,

That imaginary portal of distance

Between us and singing delirium

So intense the response is often tears.

I lived in this world for twenty-six years.

At times, I watched and listened from the wings

Urging them on like a ghostly maestro

Not always quite happy with the tempo.

Sometimes I sat in the chorus singing

From memory — I could not read a score.

I left because the patrons hadn’t stayed

No matter how well the orchestra played.

I do not go to concerts anymore.