"The Day Dietrich Died"
The day Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau died,
for a moment, I died, too.
I was already busy,
busy being into the future.
An upcoming concert,
an overdue ‘thank you’ note,
another poem waiting for restitution,
one more day of spiritual sobriety.
one more day of fragile self-care, accomplished.
The day Dietrich died,
I was hurled back,
Back four decades to my college days
when his voice first began to possess me.
He was, for me, the voice of the ecstatic Franz Schubert,
the composer who died after a mere 36 years,
romancing the world as he broke every heart in sight.
Beckoning me to experience a river of melody so sublime
that it put my own composing into cardiac arrest
for a time.
His voice captured something
that I didn't know
existed.
A delicate, passionate dance of tone and breath
using a language that is sadly too often tainted with the
evil hauntings of Nazi Germany.
Until I heard.
And then,
I stopped.
Recouping from the shock of such a brief mention
on the radio.
As if a proper British announcer said,
“Your favorite Uncle just died. Sorry.”
May 2012
