Nibelungensage Poem by Ernest Hilbert

for Irving Feldman

Already in the whistling glass of January air
Beneath the thunk and rattle of the great steel Elevated, they sit
With their whiskey and beer in McGrath’s,
Frail tinsel of smoke rising from each.

After another daylight in the white city winter,
I pass them on the corner and return to my apartment
Where the pipes moan sadly like sirens in the dusk,
Flip on Levine conducting Das Rheingold and sip a beer,

Stare at the wall, sway numbly in the icy depths
Of the Rhine until suddenly a guitar wrecks
The mounting tumult and storm of my Wagner.
A French Jazz guitarist in the apartment above

Shrieks down his electric strings, fidgets
With a riff or two. My Greek landlord, half-blind,
Thuds down the stairs, whispering
“From door to door, death will soon be here.

“Open your windows. Breathe the frozen air at last;
Let your arms fall to your sides.”
The drunks at McGrath’s lift their glasses of amber foam,
Bellowing happily “Sleep forever. The blond goddess has pulled

“The platinum sword from her side. Her hair
Shines in the night. She pleads with the Rhinemaidens
To return the gold before it is too late.”
I lift a broom to bang on the ceiling but falter,

Attend for a moment to the climb and fall of his guitar.
It lilts, dashes up and down, seems to say
“Wait. There is anger but admiration, as in all true wars.
Wotan stays his bolts, places his wingèd helm down

“On the coffee table amid sapphires and lilacs.”
With a new rhythm, I hammer the hell out the ceiling.