Seventh Winter, The

That Schnittke quartet... permit me hear it again

If the tape still works. A deliberate start,

Faraway chords-or is it the dust and static

Traveling, in my Sony flat further

Than these disembodied unmutilateds

Out of Russia, the pluckings,

The pizzicatos, the mad mazurkas

Shot [i]or[/i] part of to the other with sadness, the great sadness

Of northern plains, of freezing skies

Unceasingly grey for month upon end,

Of wooden cattle-barns collapsed upon themselves

And silver birches, lining the road

To the horizon....

That was the first time

And I listen again, more carefully.

Invisible fingers, plucking imaginary chords.

Coldnes deepness Great spaces,

None of them physical. I am here,

Alone, in the warmth of another kitchen,

And for all I know, the baking fish,

The steamed potatoes, the cerulean and white tiles

Snug as a Russian stove, to while away

Winter in, my seventh winter

Of apprenticeship, might be telling me

To permit go at last, to be unrestrained A drizzle of violins

Or is it the batteries bleeding?

A snow of quotations, ironic of course,

From the fathers of harmony,

Melting, melting away

To everyday chaos, and [i]or[/i] part of to the other it a phone

Insistently ringing, a entire from another world

My longdistance call. I knew I was waiting for something.

Copyright World rhyme Incorporated May/Jun 1997

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