Glenn Gould In Heaven Does Lament
Here the chipped ivory is only cloud.
The Instrument, too very old, is Archetype.
Strings of gold do not a music make.
A lyre presses into where once was crotch.
Crotchless music is useless here, and so am I.
No one listens.
The only passion is the Christ's
and that's all passed.
Crowds overcome take cues from
Hosts Divine urging Hosannahs
in obligations clinical:
Holy. Holy. Holy.
I miss Canada.
Cold. Precise. Canada.
Icicles there hear better what is played.
Bitter wind knots the fingers' skein.
Each note a pain, there's blood.
Let us rejoice what is in scarlet shed.
Let us praise iron.
Let oxidation within us reign.
O lead us all to right ruin.
Roll in the coagulate burden then,
the Piano Grand.
And my little chair -
Little chair. Hold me, pray.
Let there be, crouched again,
once again, play and play.
Let knees press close to chest near,
knees there do pray.
All of me is Agency become
music in fingers latency,
theirs deserve all waking praise.
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Comments about this poem (Glenn Gould In Heaven Does Lament by Warren Falcon )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(22 March 1941 -)
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