The Schnittke quarter…Let me hear it again

It the tape still works. A slow start,

Faraway chords—or is it the dust and static

Traveling, in my Sony, even further

Than these disembodied sounds

Out of Russia, the pluckings,

The pizzicatos, the mad mazurkas

Shot through with sadness, the great sadness

Of northern plains, of freezing skies

Unceasingly grey, for months on end,

Of wooden cattle-barns collapsed on themselves

And silver birches, lining the road

To the horizon…

        That was the first time—

And I listen again, more carefully.

Invisible fingers, plucking imaginary chords.

Coldness, depth. Great spaces,

None of them physical. I am here,

Alone, in the warmth of another kitchen,

And for all I know, the baking fish,

The steamed potatoes, the blue and white tiles

Snug as a Russian stove, to while away

Winter in, my seventh winter

Of apprenticeship, might be telling me

To let go at last, to be free. A drizzle of violins—

Or is it the batteries bleeding?

A snow of quotations, ironic of course,

From the fathers of harmony,

Melting, melting away

To everyday chaos, and through it a phone

Insistently ringing, a sound from another world—

My longdistance call. I knew I was waiting for something.