Edited by Gill Burrell, Sunday, 26 Dec 2021, 16:07
A memory of Kreisler once: At some recital in this same city, The seats all taken , I found myself pushed On to the stage with a few others, So near I see the toil Of his face muscles, a pulse like a moth Fluttering under the fine skin, And the indelible veins of his smooth brow.
I could see too, the twitching of the fingers, Caught temporarily in art's neurosis, As we sat there or warmly applauded This player who so beautifully suffered For each of us upon his instrument.
So it must have been on Calvary In the fiercer light of the thorns halo: The men standing by and that one figure, The hands bleeding, the mind bruised but calm, Making such Music as lives still. And no one daring to interupt Because it was himself that he played And closer than all of them the God listened.
The Musician 🎹
A memory of Kreisler once:
At some recital in this same city,
The seats all taken , I found myself pushed On to the stage with a few others,
So near I see the toil
Of his face muscles, a pulse like a moth
Fluttering under the fine skin,
And the indelible veins of his smooth brow.
I could see too, the twitching of the fingers,
Caught temporarily in art's
neurosis,
As we sat there or warmly applauded
This player who so beautifully suffered
For each of us upon his instrument.
So it must have been on
Calvary
In the fiercer light of the thorns halo:
The men standing by and that one figure,
The hands bleeding, the mind bruised but calm,
Making such Music as lives still.
And no one daring to interupt
Because it was himself that he played
And closer than all of them the God listened.
🎹🎹  🎻
R S Thomas