(Tchaikovsky Symphony no.6 in B minor, op 74, 'Pathetique')
There is acid in the sugar; you cannot deny it: or was it more complicated than that? It would not matter today. I could not play it on a bad day, because it wouldmake things worse. Four-come-five movements: trust you to be different. Rebel. Trouble. I reckon you must have been an introverted Freddie Mercury. Repressed. Seance sounds haunt me since the first time of hearing; you moving the shattered glass. The three-legged waltz stumbles around in five-time, mocking your style. Stravinsky was wrong: music does have meaningbeyond notes. If anything is pathetic, it is mixing mock jollity into the iced topping. Martyr or master of your fate? No helpline or Samaritans then. Poor Peter: not pathetic, but passionate.
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: music