“It Is the Same”
It is the same, you know, the re-creation, the mirror,
The source; the solitudes are one once removed
From where they were before perception proved
Too weighty for the beholders. Transgressions simmer
In the cup, the blind leave spittle in the stew
Created over times abridged for yet a second view, the while.
Images are stilled with melodies and nuance in the style.
A fresher incarnation, some lingering reticence since what he knew
He knows no longer. So, it seems, we recuse the point.
They look so comely, bright; the ebonies, the pines,
Mahoganies, the rhymes in rosewoods, the splays and floor. Signs
Of consummation in a chance encounter, adroit
And nimble subtleties in multiples of rapid discharge in the key.
Mahler knew she didn’t know, and wrote with what she knew he’d be.
By day, the toil. Selah. At times the ache
Returns, but somehow, nightfall comes. Perhaps
It is the hour, or something in the evening breeze, but laps
And walkabouts throughout the day are then for someone’s sake
Forgotten, and having met himself, he simply sits before the fire,
Or there, outside beneath the bluer, richer hues
Of early evening, and his heart sings; and there he loses
Once again the cares and harsher edges of desire
In poetry, and just a little harmony with the stones alone.
Not so much in sparks, but in the riot of results,
He waves his hand, and even owls will listen; bolts
Of lightning in his pen again do not groan
But gently call to sit beside him in the light
Of distant stars awakened by his voice to rest with him at night.
…”I am thrice homeless, as a native of Bohemia in Austria, as an Austrian among Germans, and as a Jew throughout the world. Everywhere an intruder, never welcomed.” …quoted by Alma Mahler; his last word was “Mozart” (a diminutive, corresponding to “dear little Mozart”), again, according to Alma Mahler who lived some fifty years after the passing of her husband…