A Poem About Chopin - Poem by adam lizakowski
A poem about Chopin
A Happy 200th birthday on March 1,2010, Mr. Chopin.
When at the age of eleven, I performed
blowing in the wind, over gravitations,
in the presence of Alexander the 1st,
knowing that his father was killed by his friends
which made him the tsar of Russia
and unwanted king of Poland,
who opened the Polish parliament in Warsaw,
whose best sons he killed or sent to prison in Siberia.
The world of music and world of politics,
the world of the betrayed and the world of tenderness,
life and death, time and eternity.
Those two worlds are so different
like love and hate which we have to earn.
There was no friendship between us.
We were wrestlers, struggling with ideas
and waiting for rewards.
The tsar of Russia was looking for flattery from his subjects,
but history devoted to him no more than a few lines
and said nothing about any sensitivity in his soul,
his attachment to beauty, or the expressions on his face
when he listened to my music.
This event in history is remembered as a meeting
of two different desires, two different loves,
two different captives, the piano against guns.
One full of music, tears of joy and freedom
against one full of pain, and tears of fear.
After a short time living in Vienna
Chopin for better health and fame
went to Paris in 1831.
His soul trembled, his face enchanting and pale,
with tired eyes and thoughts:
The statue of Poland was broken
Thousands of Polish refugees walked the streets,
but his memory was fresh like never before,
his love to his country was never stronger.
Among many people from different parts
of the world he created music which
was never heard before.
His countrymen could hear flying bees,
blowing flowers, songs of the rivers,
whispers of woods, cries of unfortunate people.
The 21-years-old, long hair, face plowed with wrinkles,
black jacket and necktie,
the way of wearing clothes something between
an artist and aristocrats, his genius made him
the mirror in which an immigrants
saw his hearts’ loneliness -
of the music and literary saloons.
A final patriotic gesture
Every day and night he saw death
sitting beyond the doors of his bedroom,
but he agreed to give a benefit concert
for Polish refugees in London.
Death waited for him in Paris, patiently admired him,
when he closed his eyes she approached him, speechless,
kissing his lips every day as they grew
colder and colder, but the fire was in his eyes.
Death not giving him a day or hour
even a minute to say goodbye to friends
or life, they would say you do not look so bad,
you look great, let’s have a drink for your good health,
and you will play us some of your
mazurkas and polonaises.
Death will not dare take you for a walk,
you with the perfect pitch.
How pale he was, coughing and spitting out blood
happy that his life was ending in such a splendor he said:
please consider my music.
When I am playing, I am not lonely.
I’m not alone in my scores,
I’m with my people, the history of my country
Death did not come to him, she flew to his bed
on two silver wings, like a Polish eagle.
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