And this poem is called Sonatina in Green, and is dedicated to--
it says in the book, for my students.
I should say, to some of them.
[LAUGHTER]
I won't say whether the better or the less good, but anyway.
Sonatina in Green.
It's a part of a series, but I'll only read one.
There are several sonatinas in colors.
Sonatina in Green.
One spits on the sublime.
One lies in bed alone reading yesterday's newspaper.
One has composed a beginning, say, a phrase or two.
No more.
There has been traffic enough in the boudoir of the muse.
And still they come, demanding entrance,
noisy and with ecstatic cries, catching the perfume,
forcing their way.
For them, what music?
Only distantly, through some door ajar,
echoes, broken strains, and the garland
crushed to the threshold.
And we, we few with the old instruments,
obstinate sounding, the one string.
For us, what music?
Only at times, the sunlight of late afternoon
that plays in the corner of a room, playing upon worn keys.
At times, smells of decaying greenery, faint bouquets,
more than enough.
And our cries diminish behind us, cover the bird cages,
no more bargain days in the flower stalls.
There has been traffic enough in the boudoir of the muse.
More than enough traffic.
I say that one composed in the end, another beginning
in spite of all this, sublime enough.
Closed are the grand boulevards, and closed those mouths that
made the lesser songs, and the curtains drawn in the boudoir.