I sit and look from my window
Onto the street
Through bars that disappear
Into a blurry mazurka of traffic
I went to Chopin’s house once
In Paris, not Poland
I always imagined him lonely
When I felt his music
Moving through my hands
Imagining a world of Sands
And other lovers
Called by false and disguised names
We all have our secret shames
I guess
Sometimes his lonely songs
Move through me
As a rebuke
To a past I keep
Under locks
I don’t play anymore
But I still dream of fluke futures
Where bright, happy music pours
From some cheerful jukebox of me
That Chopin never knew
But might have imagined
He was only thirty-nine when he died
Did he carry Paris with him
Or Warsaw
When he thought of home
Did those worlds collide inside him
Did he believe in God
Or only in the god of Music
He worships in his ballades
To me it sounds as if
He worships sorrow
And all the meanings it can add
When there is the real possibility
Of no tomorrow
And no yesterday
To look back on
Or return to
Music is always an etude
Or are we truly studying
When we play
Or listen deeply
The key signature
Of being alive
I have almost forgotten
It is not all weeping
It is also light
And spectacular and brilliant
There is speed and excitement
There are thrills and variations
And so many lyrical phrases
And divine creations
Impromptus, waltzes
Polonaises
I also went to Pere Lachaise
Where he is buried
It was raining in the cemetery
And nearly empty that day
But I walked for hours
Past Piaf, Morrison
And many other doors to the beyond
And then, without a map
I stumbled upon the damp monument
To Chopin
And the eternal power
Of music
And there in the gray light of a storm
Showering tears
Someone had placed fresh, wild
Flowers
For what is lasting
For what disappears
© 2021 Julie Flanders
Photo Credit: Den Harrson
April is Poetry Month Day 26
October Process 