fortissimo

All this talk on the boards about studying classical music, plus the obvious sex aspect of the site, got me thinking about something I wrote once. And I did one of my tweaking poetic revisions on it, because I find it hard to help tinkering with a piece when I've got it haunting my thoughts. So here it is, buffed and polished. I figure at the very least that emotastica should appreciate it.

It's longish, but stick around for the punch line.

Toscanini Never Comes Through

Truth is,
trying to love you
would doom me to failure.

I am so prone to passion;
I have yearned so long to crescendo us,
to kiss you fortissimo B-sharp
in the key-of-C streets.

But all along,
I have practiced carefully at restraint
as if love were Carnegie Hall.

I have studied intently
the famous conductors,
hoping by glimpse
to learn their curious alchemy
for crafting precious harmony,

But like all well-dressed wand-wavers,
they only brandish things neatly,
making nature's plainest whims
shimmer magical intention.

Anyhow, most of us face the music alone:
no Toscanini with his baton
to spirit the melodies in.

When we attempt ensemble,
questions arise: whose tuning?
whose tempo? Or,
oafishly allegro in the largo,
we fumble the symphony

We're all of us
poor weak-kneed virtuosos,
inexplicably talented too soon,
so clumsy with awe we forget tune
and tempo,
and without Stokowski or Bernstein,
suited well only to solo performances,
small lonely comfort at best.

But as for me,
all along I have been practice pratice practicing
and tuning myself to you sweetly.

I have endeavored to learn
your particular suite of rhythms,
and I have metronomed my heart accordingly.

I have stood transfixed
as you slept in my presence,
gasping at improvisations
murmured melodically in your breath,

And now, even if the brilliant Toscanini
does not come through,
baton waving perfectly on cue,
touching us with music
like God's Sistine hand,

I am ready.

Love, we are antiphonal.

Con abbandono...
Con brio...

Let's duet!