What notes must I play for you to know my name,
like Mozart’s from the lilt in the right hand melody,
never quite ceasing its bright trot from up to down,
with the Alberti bass following along like a lost balloon-
that inversion of placement echoing forever into history with
(Amadeus’ namesake character astride his own blazing chariot)
Can I find my self in the languid walk of Sartre,
repeating ad nauseum
in gnossiennes and gymnopedies
that one might not even ascribe to a musician.
I’m sure he would have loved that.
Clumsy, subtle, unsure
We can just go through those three forever, if you like
maybe my endless trials of the same songs,
the ones I play to myself when no one is around,
that triplet of 1-2-3 in both fingers and chords,
tones swaying down in pitch and mood grasping at gravitas,
the opening lulling into words I still can’t say,
perhaps those are the beginnings of what I think I’m seeking,
the start of the shape your mouth will make
when you say my name.
The ghosts of these people still settle into our hearts today,
and their names dance like lit paper scraps on concrete methodology.
Can we still make echoes and cadences that the future will hear,
or are the waves of the past too strong and full to ever settle?