Before I knew of you,
I knew your music.
When I turned the flat metal handle
of my pale pink jewelry box,
Für Elise would play as a ballerina
in a white tutu would spin and spin
and I would hum along
until the music slowed
into garish metallic plinks.
Part of me envied Elise—
that someone would write her
such a beautiful song.
Now I know you wrote it for Therese,
a woman you wanted to marry,
but in transcription
your handwriting was misspelt,
and the error lasts to this day.
And Therese, she had no interest
in marrying you.
Oh, Ludwig, I, too, know
how the heart sometimes longs
for what it will never have.
I know how our words are twisted
till they plink, till the plunk.
I know how mistakes
sometimes stay with us forever.
What I meant to say is Happy Birthday,
Thank you for daring to love
even when it hurt.
Thank you for transforming your pain
and rejection into music so relevant
that 250 years later its played
as cell phone ring tones.
Thank you for teaching me
as a girl how to hum along—
for giving me the reason
to turn that flat metal handle
again and again and again.
Posts Tagged ‘Beethoven’
Dear Ludwig,
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Beethoven, love, piano, role model on December 16, 2022| 5 Comments »
Sometimes When I Despair
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Beethoven, hope, impossible, poem, poetry, possibility on August 29, 2019| 5 Comments »
There are no barriers for a person with talent and love towards work.
—Ludwig van Beethoven
Everyone knows Beethoven
went deaf, could hardly hear
by the time he composed
the Moonlight Sonata.
I think of him sometimes
when I want to believe
in impossible things.
Like great harmony
born out of dead silence.
Like love in full bloom
despite drought.
Like finding a pocket in time.
Like hope, growing like mint.
Joyful, Joyful
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged band, Beethoven, parenting, poem, poetry on December 9, 2016| 2 Comments »
From the back row, no one can see
that the flute player’s white oxford shirt
is mis-buttoned. His dirty blonde hair
falls into his eyes. He tosses it back
with a flick of his head, picks up his instrument
and focuses his attention on the conductor.
With a lurch, the sixth-grade band launches
into the last section of Beethoven’s 9th,
and the familiar tune of Ode to Joy
brightens the dim auditorium.
The conductor keeps perfect time,
and the students, though stilted,
follow her rhythm. I think of Vienna,
1824, in the Theatre am Karntnertor,
when Beethoven himself stood on stage
at the end of his career to direct the premiere,
his first time on stage in twelve years.
Though he could not hear the symphony, he furiously
waved his arms in tempo, moving his body
as if to play all the instruments at once,
as if he could be every voice in the chorus.
And when it was done, the great composer
went on, still conducting, not knowing
it was over until the contralto soloist moved to him
and turned him to face the ovation.
With the greatest respect, and knowing
that applause could not reach him,
the audience members raised their hands and hats
and threw white handkerchiefs into the air,
then rose five times to their feet.
When the sixth grade band director
lowers her arms, the young musicians stop with her.
They rise and bow, and the audience claps
and some of the parents whoop.
And the students bow again, and again,
though the clapping is done.
They do not yet know how to carry pride
in their awkward bodies, and they stumble
and list off the stage.
The flute player’s black pants are too short
for his long thin legs. He is growing in ways
neither he nor his mother can understand.
There she is, weeping in the back row,
in her ears, in her heart, a song of joy.
Changing My Tune Midway
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Beethoven, beets, gardener, poem, poetry on September 28, 2015| 1 Comment »
The beets are always disappointing.
I dream of beets densely red and robust,
beets that have weight to them,
beets that take effort to slice.
But this year, again, they are small,
puny, even, though there are a lot of them.
I suppose a better gardener would research
nitrogen and potassium and how to best amend.
I suppose a better Buddhist would not complain.
But I am not a Buddhist. And I am no great gardener,
just a woman with a bit of dirt to play in.
They say that Beethoven, when he could hear,
would ask people in the audience to give him a tune.
And someone would hum for him, or whistle,
and he’d play the tune back and then improvise
variations on their theme. What tune
am I whistling for the master? A song
of paucity? Of ingratitude?
And how might it carry on, one variation
after another? This began just a little whine,
or so I thought, a little melody for more.
But who is master of this score? Oh woman
who sees the glass half empty, do you really
still believe that there’s a glass? Don’t you see,
this is not a poem about beets?
It’s about the way small things can last.
The beets are always disappointing.
I dream of beets densely red and robust,
beets that have weight to them,
beets that take effort to slice.
But this year, again, they are small,
puny, even, though there are a lot of them.
I suppose a better gardener would research
nitrogen and potassium and how to best amend.
I suppose a better Buddhist would not complain.
But I am not a Buddhist. And I am no great gardener,
just a woman with a bit of dirt to play in.
They say that Beethoven, when he could hear,
would ask people in the audience to give him a tune.
And someone would hum for him, or whistle,
and he’d play the tune back and then improvise
variations on their theme. What tune
am I whistling for the master? A song
of paucity? Of ingratitude?
And how might it carry on, one variation
after another? This began just a little whine,
or so I thought, a little melody for more.
But who is master of this score? Oh woman
who sees the glass half empty, do you really
still believe that there’s a glass? Don’t you see,
this is not a poem about beets?
It’s about the way small things can last.