WEBVTT

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And this poem is called Sonatina
in Green, and is dedicated to--

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it says in the book,
for my students.

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I should say, to some of them.

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[LAUGHTER]

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I won't say whether the better
or the less good, but anyway.

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Sonatina in Green.

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It's a part of a series,
but I'll only read one.

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There are several
sonatinas in colors.

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Sonatina in Green.

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One spits on the sublime.

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One lies in bed alone reading
yesterday's newspaper.

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One has composed a beginning,
say, a phrase or two.

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No more.

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There has been traffic enough
in the boudoir of the muse.

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And still they come,
demanding entrance,

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noisy and with ecstatic
cries, catching the perfume,

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forcing their way.

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For them, what music?

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Only distantly,
through some door ajar,

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echoes, broken strains,
and the garland

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crushed to the threshold.

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And we, we few with
the old instruments,

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obstinate sounding,
the one string.

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For us, what music?

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Only at times, the
sunlight of late afternoon

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that plays in the corner of a
room, playing upon worn keys.

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At times, smells of decaying
greenery, faint bouquets,

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more than enough.

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And our cries diminish behind
us, cover the bird cages,

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no more bargain days
in the flower stalls.

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There has been traffic enough
in the boudoir of the muse.

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More than enough traffic.

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I say that one composed in
the end, another beginning

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in spite of all
this, sublime enough.

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Closed are the grand boulevards,
and closed those mouths that

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made the lesser songs, and the
curtains drawn in the boudoir.

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