Adagio
merely a tempo
prescribing a pace
for this
middle
movement
which, of course, says only
the tiniest bit.
so the composer speaks
an altogether
different
language
a lone voice
asking its questions
innocently,
plaintively,
into the void.
and the void
answers.
ex nihilo
petite, percussive plucking
above,
below,
and
in the midst
of long pulls and pushes of
horse-hair bows
across vibrating strings.
sustained
excruciating
stretches
kneading
what
needs
to be
kneaded
and needed.
extending gently
and not so gently;
evoking that familiar
– but not unwelcome –
ache
that surfaces,
then dives
climbs
and descends
up to the vellus hair
on the underside
of an ear lobe
baby fuzz
that refused to go away.
down to the deepest
recesses of the
undefined spaces
between the cells
which join
to build
and Create.
Life.
synchronous
pain and pleasure
impossibly occupying
the
same
space
the almost, but not yet;
the yesterday which never was
but also the one which was
and will be
oh
so
good.
luxuriate and persevere in today,
which is all of these
and more
but less as well.
Adagio
the marking tells you little.
so listen.
Hear.
Feel.
Everywhere.
S L O W L Y.
This poem is a meditation on what I believe is one of the most perfect 6-8 minutes of music (depending on YOUR adagio…) ever written: the second movement of Mozart’s Piano Concerto #23 in A Major, KV 488.
I don’t like the title I settled on. Something better may come later. Or feel free to offer suggestions.
But only if you listen as you read…
defying atrophy 