Robin's Poetry Page 1

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Forgiveness

I should know how forgiving feels,
but I can't recall.

I think of certain people and

my heart turns hot or cold
my jaw tightens
my solar plexus heaves.

turning around in a familiar room
and shivering, seeing the room
for the first time;
gazing at a moonless sky
and wondering what solar system
I am in now;
perceiving the blue light
of the nebula obscuring Merope
wondering why I have never noticed.

feeling hands clasp this face
untouched in decades,
the dim remembrance of skin to skin,

then unsheathing these eyes
to see my nemesis
gazing back
with kindness.

Robin Parsons 12/28/01 (3/15/02)

Coda

A brief moment,
unlike all the symphonic moments
that precede it…,
moments whose regular motions
gather the body of the orchestra
to turn and face itself,
furiously pointing the cadence of each measure
like gazing at one’s own brisk footsteps,
and gestures sweeping, caressing,
closing phrases
with a tiny wave of hand
and harvesting music from the air.

After the final cataclysm
the arms are held aloft,
tense, with no more music to convey.
All sound vanishes into
an astonishing vortex
whose name is silence
and an unnamable word
rises from deep within the diaphragm
seeking escape from hushed lips
to inflict itself upon the fragile nothingness
but will not be spoken.

Robin Parsons 3/2001

The Cello Dances
(at a performance of Bach's Suite No. 3 in C)

A hollow wooden hourglass
with long narrow neck,
carved scroll and pegbox head;
a pin-less baroque cello
is clasped between knees
and brought to rest against
abdomen and left shoulder,
embraced and comforted.
In pregnant silence,
knowing fingers caress fingerboard
as horsehair bow is drawn
gently to waist-strings.
An arrested breath accumulates
an hour's tension and anticipation,
and the cello begins dancing
like no one is watching.
Prelude, allemande, courante:
wave builds on wave, ocean upon ocean.
Four catgut strings infer sun and sunlight;
bass notes here, treble trills there,
a monochromatic line suggests
its own harmony
as jolly chess pieces
skip robustly, dancing,
up and down fingerboard
toward checkmate gigue
with growing determination.
Bach is laughing with us,
in compound triple rhythm,
and asking who could know
the singer from the song.

Robin Parsons 12/21/01

The Mathematics of Farewell
(after hearing the Sonata in E flat, Opus 81a "Les Adieux")

1. It is said that two minus one equals one,
and three minus two also equals one,
meaning one is a lonely number.

2. Adagio-allegro
The mediant descends to the tonic:
three descending notes mean farewell
in german.

3. Three descending notes,
a solemn entrance melody,
a plaintive trill motions upward,
chords of resignation:
the exponent of sorrow is three.
Beethoven suddenly agitates
arpeggios with leaping forte octaves .
We are meant to know
the displeasure of saying
goodbye compounded.

4. Andante espressivo
Absence.
One plus zero equals one.
Waiting to the power of one trillion,
where it is meant to
tumble into infinity.

5. Vivacissamente
We know that not all farewells
end happily,
but only Beethoven could
make joy seem agitated
like an overly vigorous handshake:
rapid chopping chords
in the left hand
while the right scampers
up the stairs of octaves
and down again
breathlessly.

As though Beethoven is telling us
that a welcome home knows
the anxiety that farewell might return.

Robin Parsons 2/08/02

Terezin Quartet (Entartete Musik)
(for Hans Krasa, died Auschwitz, 1944)

Molto lento creeps
the policy of undesireableness,
a fog for the consciousness
gazing blankly through lens and barbed wire
at four musicians
who gather their bows to string
together interrupted voices
for propaganda.

The film rolls and
the first violin plays four notes,
one repeated
followed by cello pizzicati
as the quartet gathers
as one voice.

Passive smiles,
and showy handshakes,
are repeated ad infinitum
with different sets and characters
in the policy of apathy
as AIDS handles undesirables organically
and strange fruit swings in the poplar breeze.
A continent hemorrhages its culture and intellect
for a racial ideology
and Der Fuhrer donates a town to the Jews.

Four musicians gather
bleak beauty
at the straining of the jazz age,
and the pervading awareness
that a boxcar to Auschwitz awaits.

Robin Parsons, 5/28/01

The Scherzo of Schumann’s Opus 44

An assertive ascent
in scalar motion
thrice repeated
each to a higher register,
followed by
playful octave cascades
alternately more hesitant
and outspoken in character,
with repeated ascents and descents
that roll upon a trill.

In the trio, the piano
in this premiere union
with the ubiquitous string quartet,
engages with silvery ivory arpeggios
against a rocking violin melody,
and pizzicati stand with
rising chromatic figurations:
piano weaving in and out of
string timbre;
standing in front proud,
then receding, supporting.

And, as the scherzo returns,
I am running over hills,
laughing and rolling
and in love with it all.

Robin Parsons 5/18/01