My ability to sight-read notes
Is my one beauty.
Year after year,
I sight-read the same pieces,
Learning the hearing of them
And loving them as friends,
But knowing the playing of them
Little better than at first.
When I sight-read Handel,
My eyes and mind and fingers and ears and heart
Are all in agreement
That a finer master of musical art
Can never have walked the earth.
When I sight-read Bach,
My eyes and mind and fingers and ears and heart
Are all in agreement,
That I could not have been more mistaken about Handel
And that this, this is beyond beyond.
When I sight-read Scriabin,
A schism arises between my eyes and ears,
Between my mind and heart,
With none but my fingers to bridge the gap.
My eyes and mind say, "What is this stuff?"
They can make nothing of it.
My fingers move across the keys, discovering.
My ears and heart reply, "How beautiful."
Year after year,
I learn these (and more) anew,
And learning, love them,
And gradually come to feel
That I have known and loved them always.
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