J.P. Dancing Bear-III
Gacela of the Beethovens
for Glynn M. Irby
We should not speak in solitudes; like Beethoven laying
in the coffin of his piano. Still waiting to hear one final note—
laying against the wires hoping they will knock loose
whatever is blocking his ear from love.
The ghost of Beethoven pounds his keys in candle light
while the body lays gorgeous and dreaming—so peaceful
as he envisions Pastoral country sides with folk tunes
rising up out of the autumnal harvest beds.
That younger dreaming Beethoven is trying so hard to make
the sound that will wake his old sleeping man. Furious
with the gods—their constant pranking jokes. Forcing an old man
to recount his sounds—a blind painter has to remember
the way a brushstroke lays on the canvas, how to capture
tones and shades; the fine details missed by other eyes.
Beethoven wants to slam the piano lid down on his failed
body—it requiring more and more sleep, so much time.
That younger dreaming Beethoven—manifesting his desire
in double-helixed with frustration—composing melody
in the graying day. He creates a tornado of notes, slam-
rattling keys, thunder strikes demanding to be heard.
But where is the old man in his grand? Each sting stinging
his skin. Wild mane tangling in with the silvered notes.
He watches the clouds turn into the busts of past. Marble dust
a swirling storm—the eye is an ear just learning to hear, to hear.