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Poems from The Death Mazurka |
European Movements | ||
Córdoba to Hamburg Bordeaux to |
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The Death Mazurka |
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It was late — late in the silence — yet a mangled tune still rose as if from a needle trapped in a warped and spinning groove: an inarticulate moan fragmented out of sense but insistent it be known. Footfalls turned me around: a troupe of dancers spun and kicked and dipped as one — three score minus one, and that one danced alone. I watched them skip and prance but followed only her. And yes, the drum was swift and kept a lively beat, and violins sang sweet then stridently miaoued — a mocking sliding note. She alone danced on uncoupled, incomplete. But the trumpets shrilled their tongues and the saxophones crooned deep and cymbals scoured the night to a clashing brassy gleam. How the women's earrings shined! like sparks from a whirling fire that never would be ash. Then the men whisked off their hats and bowed to the slide trombone as though it sat enshrined. But still she danced alone at the edge of the wheeling ring: I could feel the horizon tilt when she veered close to me. Then she turned then I then the night blew back forty years: I stood in a desolate place, a reservoir of death — I could kneel anywhere and drink! Yes, here was the shul in its bones and here Judenrein Square and here a few scorched teeth from some martyred, unknown saint. The sky was a scroll of pain — each star a sacred name! I saw through time in that light. But I turned and blood rained down and I turned and dipped and drank and could not take my fill: I yearned to find her there. And I turned toward darkness again where dancers in masks like skulls twirled in smoke and fire, whirled in fire and smoke. Now! screamed the violins. And she was near as my heart as we clasped each other and turned. And Now! they shrieked. And Now! |
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