Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AFTER THE SYMPHONY, by CALE YOUNG RICE Poet's Biography First Line: The last finale had crashed Last Line: Then slow sleep muted all to oblivion. Subject(s): Grief; Happiness; Music & Musicians; Musical Instruments; Youth; Sorrow; Sadness; Joy; Delight | ||||||||
The last finale had crashed, A surging shower of irridescent vibrance; And as the musicians sighed and rose To drift away into the night, Their tired instruments, glinting no longer, Catching no longer enchanted rhythms Into their breasts of wood and brass, Were laid away in case and cover, Hushed. The violins slept; With rhythm dreams flitting along their fibres. The flute with an aria lingering yet at its vents, Like a disembodied soul at earthly haunts, Lay still; And still lay the clarinet and sad oboe In the leathern dark that swathed them. Then I heard speaking, Started, I think, by a viola: 'How much Beethoven has said in his Fifth! Had he but told us a little more The meaning of all life's haunting Minors Would surely be open to us!' A piccolo sighed, 'Perhaps.' To which a cello mourned reply, No; you forget Tchaikowsky! Chords cannot plumb the ultimate meaning of sorrow. The "Pathetique" is proof that grief and wrong Are discord-atoms, element-powers, That enter all being darkly. Resolve them away, we may, Ever into the Major, But ever, as mists to moors, they return Blindly, to brew their bane. Meanings are but illusions that vanish, Mysteries only abide!' 'Then,' said a blunt bass-viol, 'Illusions are better, though briefer! Bach, with his bounding clarity for me! The strong crisp creed of a fugue, Free of all doubtings, achings, searchings, Sure at last of completion!' 'And of immortality too?' asked the oboe, With reedy quaver. 'Would indeed it were so! Would we could round life off To a circle of completion!' 'But since we cannot,' rang a horn, 'For wishes are not wonders, Why do we whine of meaning and mystery? What do these matter? Power is all! Strength to shout to the heavens That we are masters of them As long as we breathe of earth. For Death and the dead are equals -- both are dead!' From the drums a volley echoed, 'Both are dead!' Whereon was hushing, but not ceasing; No more peace or ceasing Than follows the rattle of clods on a coffin. For all waited the word of their leader, the violin, Whose voice is ever reverberant Of the hope and despair of the world. And softly it began . . . As if the thronging memories Of a thousand symphonies stirred it: Of allegros that ran like youth Before slow-aging adagios; Of scherzos that dissolved in the arms Of funeral strains, to be borne away On the solemn hearse of silence: Softly it began . . . 'We play but ill, comrades, And blind to the score's beauty, Else neither meaning nor mystery Would overmuch trouble us. Great joy can only come to the griever, Great grief to the rejoicer. So only they who are resonant With both, and who sound harmonies That waken harmonics infinite, Only they play well! Be the clef what it may then, Be the time brave or broken, There is a rhythm always Of mingled Major and Minor For those with souls to seize it!' An interval followed Of silvery murmured assent: Not even the blare-begetting horn broke it. Then slow sleep muted all to oblivion. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STUDY OF HAPPINESS by KENNETH KOCH SO MUCH HAPPINESS by NAOMI SHIHAB NYE CROWD CONDITIONS by JOHN ASHBERY I WILL NOT BE CLAIMED by MARVIN BELL THE BOOK OF THE DEAD MAN (#21): 1. ABOUT THE DEAD MAN'S HAPPINESS by MARVIN BELL A CHARM TO BRING CHILDREN (EGYPT, A.D. 100) by CALE YOUNG RICE |
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