"Dear Ludwig"

Notwithstanding your deafness,
   I've always had difficulties hearing your music . . .

Likely, it began when I first heard your infamous Für Elise,
   or as my 10-year old mind assumed, Furry Lease.
How could I have forgotten my peers’ exhaustion as they
   slogged through this unwitting classic.
It's relentless half-step motion reminding me of a spider
   that artfully evades capture,
   and whose cleverness includes hoarding bits of
   pretzel and marshmallow.

Then there was your Fifth Symphony,
   a marvel of directness,
   though more like scolding than wooing.
Ripping out the gossamer fabric Mozart hung
   in our collective foyer just a generation earlier.
And pre-dating countless silent (and dusty) film scores
   by a century.

And lastly, the finale from your last symphony,
   Ode To Joy.
One might say a Tsunami of Brotherly Love,
   and as close to a football chant as one could imagine.
I've been known to cower behind tall speakers
   and family armoires upon hearing this music.
Wondering if my rescue would ever include
   a very different kind of finale,
   an Appalachian Spring,
   with its sublime utterance of ’Tis the Gift to be Simple
   and proportions more akin to a gilded hymnal . . .

Through this all,
   I instinctively knew that something was very wrong . . .
Like an ill-fitting pair of reading glasses,
   or bed that has lost its sense of purpose,
The modern instruments that played your creations
   bore little resemblance to the world that you heard,
   and belonged to.

There, but for the convenience of the performers,
   their teachers,
   and the instrument underwriters,
We heard mere translations,
   Old Wives’ Tales
   and timbral gossip
About what your music actually sounded like.

For I literally   could   not   hear   your   music
   coming out of a modern grand piano,    
   like a silent driverless car,
   replete with onboard navigation that always yielded
   the fastest, smoothest, and dullest route.

Clearly, I could not grasp
   your daring,
   your relentless development,
   your ability to deceive,
   and
   your tenderness.

Because I needed to hear your music on the instrument
   you so adored,
An early 19th century fortepiano by Conrad Graf,
   with its throaty rough edges,
   clearly distinct registers,
   and demure egotism.

I sense that what you relished most, Dear Ludwig,
   was taking your musical partners on wild rides
   in a flashy Aston Martin sports car that
   alternately purred and roared.
One that found hidden portals to accommodate
   not only your fortepiano, but your friends, too,
   along with their violin and cello,
   plus a sharp quill for self defense if rehearsals
   got too hot.

Enter Andreas Staier,
   a fellow German who looks a good deal like you,
   had your diet been better.
He, a modern god of keyboard antiquity,
   is fearless in his pursuit of
   dance,
   resonance,
   and your vision.
His technique is like that of a samurai —
   reserved, but ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

I suspect that early on Mr. Staier learned to drive both
   your Aston Martin and your fortepiano,
   using glasses and goggles to help him
   spot a good joke,
And turn your cantabile melodies
   into timeless balms for the soul. 

 

February 2022

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©2022, Michael Smolens