This wants to say goodbye.
The momentum of goodbye
Helps the poem falling towards dying.
First, the trumpets (muted) and oboes start crying,
Like birds, calling, and flying,
As if they were almost far away.
They are—in the deep, dark valley, I’m afraid.
Slower winds now dart into the shade.
The flutes by the edge of the lake wait for the somber day
To whiten and end before they play.
This wants to say goodbye
But not like a poem, after a few words.
For dozens of minutes, there must be a slow crescendo.
But first, in the distant valley, you must hear birds
As if the evening couldn’t appear dimly without them,
As if a multitude of murmuring had to happen,
Without caring, without being aware of the plan:
To flutter down into the warmer air to say goodbye—
One cherub, who smiles, waving to another, with a tendency to cry,
In a manner you can’t put into a poem,
For fear of being too sentimental. The guitar
Must be translated just so,
A strange tuning, before the slow
Trace of the emerging race dresses for its dance
Before it has to go.
Down on stage—see the ladders, there,
Among the leaves? That’s where they arrive from.
Some bright tomorrow will be there for them.
How did you manage that? The soft material
In dark flower patterns wrapped around their heads?
This poem has no idea what is happening next, except
That the dance must start, and the crimson heart
Must remain the unspoken theme
When the music begins, like a dream.
This wants to say goodbye.
The momentum of the goodbye is in its favor.
This momentum is all we love, and all we savor,
In drinks, and vacations, and drugs, and all goodbyes.
If you want to know the truth, this poem wants to be a song.
But the instruments are all wrong.
I told you about the lake, and made some remarks, under my breath,
On oboes and flutes. Quietly as death.
But nothing plays that quietly,
Though I can tell you, simply. I can rely on your piety
And understanding. To see what I must do
In this poem; of course it isn’t always true,
But won’t you be sympathetic, when the leaves awake,
Slowly—to music I made—from the shining lake?
The mixture of plants, and the water where they like to reside
Is a metaphor for music, where notes harmoniously hide
Inside each other: all it needs is simple math
To augment the plants which enjoy themselves in the weary bath;
So many layers of leaves surround the water in the dusk,
Eyes can barely distinguish the true theme of the music,
Though it doesn’t matter, because we know the dream
Is putting off goodbye as we say goodbye. That’s the theme.