Beethoven and Poetry
I would be very interested on thoughts on the subject of poetry that has been written
about Beethoven and other composers.
Beethovenhaus, Bonn, I believe have a collection of poems written about Beethoven in German, but I don't think they are available for sale, though they do have books online for sale.
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I would like to start off with this interesting poem that gives us sensitive and sympathetic account of the impact of Beethoven's music, which I have had translated from Danish.
Written by the Danish Poet, THORKILD BJORNVIG.
*** DIVERTIMENTO OM BEETHOVEN ***
Beloved Master, please do not stop!
you don't want to either, continue, continue.
The violinists are working,
those meticulous machinists
in your vast workshop,
no, piston arms and elbows
in Titanic diesel engine,
you turn into ecstatic superhuman-
they believe in you, in themselves,
notice you, play like mad.
The horn players blow,
ruthlessly you tread on their lungs
like bellows, out tumbles the sound
in somersaults, an impossible rise,
you insert the zenith, the pole star,
the sundial, culminations in spots -
you give them all the breath they need.
And the man at the kettledrums and big
drums which otherwise stand idle
with a single bang like releif work,
his hanging arms
you transform into spokes in a furious wheel.
One flash of lightning from you races
up through the conductor's thoracic vertebrae, raises his arms,
like flapping condor wings,
and a little later his lowered fingers drip
with honey and soothing bird song.
Wonderful, now the Master takes me apart
with a splitting thunderbolt, a crash,
or slowly and skilfully you place
all my parts in a bath of thin oil
and collect me later, cleaned,
inspected and balsamically renewed.
Now I can take more. First the pining and dance-
You then place peculiar nuts on my anvil and
swing your sledge hammer with force
that put the devil in them -
out fly dazzling cherubs
with wild, blessed heavenly cries,
the ceiling cracks
and the stars shine down on the forge of the concert hall.
And the Solitudes -
solitude heaped on solitude,
melting, complaining, completely engrossed in self, and so the turning point,
the fusion, the furious togetherness,
joyous triumph, dance, choir vibrating
strains of cartilage and brass
changing of sound, mixing of lime, blood, metal.
super choir, up trees, intertwined, with upturned mouths,
smoking of golden dross, all-loving -
And so, finally, beyond solitude and togetherness,
remaining in a closet in a house where no one lives, suddenly into the air,
suddenly away, and now only:
devotion free from fever, chilly morning skies, serenity.
But at last the finales -
sorry as usual that you stopped,
it was all too wonderful,
want neither to eat or sleep,
no a new finale -
and now: yet another,
the text long at an end,
now only dynamic, lengthy full stops,
emotional dashes, dashes of joy, the fury of departure,
Dionysian orgasms of the Holy Spirit,
the finale itself.
Conception of new works.
And finally, finally, after the sonatas,
fingers of the pianist on a walk through forests, over tree roots, along moonlit coasts devoid of humans
with sobbing loss of memory, the heart breaks to remember what never happened -
or what happened when the finger meditates on the key -
finally the quartets, the last one,
particularly the longest. In you
alone and ageing, long deaf
rose the inner, wholly inner music
slowly compelling, heavenly persistent,
now you have finally decided never to stop,
Beloved Master.
It is also true, it was also successfull,
most certainly, the score ceases,
the tragedy is over,
but you continue
calm as a cherub,
trusting as a child,
not distracted by outer ears
in the throb of the pulse,
the pulse of sleep and embrace,
of mercy and oblivion -
the creator's motive
for the beat of our heart
remembered by you.
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