Glenn Gould In Heaven Does Lament Poem by Warren Falcon

Here chipped ivory is only cloud.
The Instrument, Archetype.
Strings of gold do not a music make.

Here no one listens.

The only passion is the Christ's
and that's all passed.
Crowds overcome take cues from
Hosts Divine urging Hosannas in
obligations clinical:

Holy. Holy. Holy.


I miss Canada.

Cold. Precise. Canada.

There icicles hear better what is played.
Bitter winds knot a fingers' skein.
Each note played is pain. There's blood.


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,
pressed knees there do pray.

Let all of me be
Agency become music
in fingers latency,

theirs deserve all waking praise.

Let us rejoice what is in scarlet shed.
Let us praise iron.
Let oxidation within us reign.

O lead us all to right ruin.

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Photo of young Glenn Gould upon his customized piano seat (referred to in this poem) .