‘Leipzig, 1825’
A morning like so many mornings,
the usual breakfast clatter, my brothers
squabbling over the last morsel of sausage
the piano open, beckoning
dust motes swirling in the bay window
shaping themselves into notes
except Papa was still upstairs, and
downstairs in the shadow
of the door to the vestibule
I saw Mama and Papa’s friend embrace
Just because I didn’t speak
did not mean I was blind.
‘Mariane’
Mama’s voice
could bring
an angel to his knees.
‘Piano Sonata in A minor, R. Schumann’
Here at the edge
of this anxious world
the London elite
queue outside St. James’s Hall
No longer wunderkind
still I am a marvel
to the staid English
Under my fingers
Robert’s newest creations
rage, weep, soar.
‘Stage 4 Syphilis’
Pantry, music room, parlour, nursery
thin walls strewn manuscripts
staves stuttering with crotchets and quavers
Robert’s dark celestial voices
He doesn’t know
they hold us hostage too.
Alien Buddha Press 