By: Joshua Blau
Subway stops, Yorkian denizens
Passing through the world
Of underground travel.
But they do not go where
You go, to the music.
Some follow, getting off
Where you stand at the doors
Of another world, up the ramps
And through the halls, ticket counters:
But it has not begun,
For where are the players,
The commanders of attention
And reality? Now look,
Hereto trickle artists!
Conduct, O maestro, wholesome dreams!
The march, the thrums and Russian themes
Drawn out by endless ebb and flow
Of horsehair bows with hands in tow.
They dance at paced conductor’s wand,
Tossed here and there as winded frond
While hips and torsos rock along
Their counterpart, the music’s song.
Blacks and whites join now the fray,
Rachmaninoff they will relay
By hand and hand as feet connect,
The other world they must protect—
The other world the music strikes,
Realities, with so-sharp pikes,
Destroying what was there before,
Releasing only heard in lore.
Your sight is of no use—let free!
For sights do not exist to see
Where only tides and ripples are;
The seas of sound no man may bar.
You do not sit, no velvet lies
Beneath you as the music cries,
Nor is there anything to sense
But luscious lines, so fine, yet dense.
No more run the woodwinds,
String, horn, and drum,
All hail the piano, shining
Light of a thousand
Encore, bravo, once yet more!
Lo, he sits, hair over eyes—
It matters not
Long as fingers crawl,
Keys fall, jump.
A stream, deluge, the notes, the chords!
It rains down beauty ‘pon the fjords
Of thought and wisdom evermore
Until the lighting they restore.
Woe the stop of music grand,
These silent footfalls
Patrons of the arts
Trampling floors and stifling flows.
The instruments take leave…
Quiet waiting, casual talking
Worse than turbulent
Whispers in the dim—
You never really noticed.
Return, ye giants, march the stage
To calls of fate as old as age,
Create what else does not belong
In worldly places—bang the gong!
Once more let sleep what stays outside
Can never enter all the pride
Of life and living so bourgeois
When ears pick up more than La Croix.
It makes you want to sleep yourself
Do not! Do not return to shelf
What you have now, or do not have—
Burdens, Atlas! —on the Ave.
Moments of breath
Stretched long, ere
There is nothing.
An instant passes; outside
It is cold.