Warren Falcon

Freshman - 593 Points (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

Glenn Gould In Heaven Does Lament - Poem by Warren Falcon

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 Hosannas in
obligations clinical:

Holy. Holy. Holy.

I miss Canada.
Cold. Precise. Canada.
There icicles 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,
pressed knees there do pray.

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

theirs deserve all waking praise.

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Topic(s) of this poem: music

Form: Elegy

Poet's Notes about The Poem

Watch Glenn Gould perform the Goldberg Variations just six months before his untimely death:

https: //www.youtube.com/watch? v=UGPJDgp2-9A

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, November 17, 2012

Poem Edited: Thursday, April 23, 2015

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