I dined, at dusk, not far from Pére Lachaise,
Or so I’ve thought of it, since I was young
And reading Balzac, as a Rastignac -
A student, contemplating ’68;
Or Flaubert - feeling I was Frederic.
The dusk was grey and wintery, the trees
Largely bare of foliage and birds.
I sat alone, my earphones sheltering
My consciousness from circumambient
Chatter and insouciance alike.
Then, having kept the beat, to Billy Joel
Sharing with you his old song, ‘Stiletto’,
I chanced upon a singular recording
Of Martha Argerich, in decades past,
Still the young brunette, at her piano,
Performing, with her legendary passion,
The dazzling Rach 3, supreme concerto,
With such elan that I was swept along,
Electrified as much by her as it,
Within the genius of Rachmaninoff.
Isn’t this the pinnacle, my love,
Of all his compositions for piano?
Conceived in peace, at Ivanovka, dated
Moscow 23 September, nineteen
Nine; and premiered, thereafter, in New York?
Her unexampled virtuosity,
Took me further than does Ashkenazy:
She made me feel my very senses were
The keyboard, swept by her electric hands -
It was as if my brain was her piano.
There I was, on that familiar street,
Where I have been so often in my life,
But finding it a flow of deep emotion,
Transmuting latent memories of love,
Triggering synaptic revolutions.
For, as she played, I felt your animation
Seated with me and embodying
The transcendental music she enacted,
As if I was on speed or LSD -
My psyche drenched in you and ecstasy.
I rose, before the third and final movement,
I danced upon the homeward boulevard,
No longer Rastignac or young Moreau,
But waltzing with you, Psyche, as the Sun
Hespered, pink, behind the leaden clouds.
Then I felt that you were Argerich,
Who have, with peerless subtlety and verve,
Breathed new life and possibility
Into the very keys of who I am.
Oh, play on, Martha! Play the full Rach 3!