The Largest of Curtains (To Dmitri Shostakovich)
A poem about Dmitri Shostakovich
Sensational death throes
Aspiring heart beats,
Grotesque reminders of the Forgetting.
Forgotten reminders,
Of Russian acts of war,
Art like the fourth,
Forced out of tune,
Turned out of time.
Twenty five years, to be exact.
Denounced denouncers
Truth-sayers and truth seekers,
Truth speaks and moulds, & even shakes in untold ways,
The foundations of
The largest of curtains.
It remains
That sound is Sound, & suites next door,
Be it preludes or fugues,
Symphonies or quartets,
Can never be, truly,
Hanged, drawn or quartered.
But remember,
The Thirteenth of anything,
Even a symphony, brings bad luck…
Nevertheless, We have faith In our overcoats
And the condemned and shameful alike,
Owe you their thanks,
If not for music then,
The life of a poet, Brodsky’s.
And so you leave us,
You leave us hearing Truth.
Ears like eyes,
No longer wide or shut.
We are the children of monstrous Men,
Are we not?
And you are,
Part Of this,
The daily soundtrack of our lives.