Petrushka (Stravinsky)

Till now, to others: when at last it happens

it hurts less finally than the dolls believe:

the hand that held the puppets falls and opens;

the puppets twist, and rise, and are alive.

But now they can no longer move together –

though (look) the strings are tangled. The freed limb

searches for muscles to replace its tether;

the muscles have no music ruling them.

But up, slack-sinewed; and a kind of bow

(no longer to a fellow) to the mirror;

then, out of habit, part of the old dance.

Look once around no-longer-home. And now

learn that your world had edges; and, with terror,

stare out across the waiting audience.

TERENCE TILLER

Concert-Interpretation

(Le Sacre du Printemps)

The audience pricks an intellectual Ear …

Stravinsky … Quite the Concert of the Year!

Forgetting now that none-so-distant date

When they (or folk facsimilar in state

Of mind) first heard with hisses – hoots – guffaws –

This abstract Symphony (they booed because

Stravinsky jumped their Wagner palisade

With modes that seemed cacophonous and queer),

Forgetting now the hullabaloo they made,

The Audience pricks an intellectual ear.

Bassoons begin … Sonority envelops

Our auditory innocence; and brings

To Me, I must admit, some drift of things

Omnific, seminal, and adolescent.

Polyphony through dissonance develops

A serpent-conscious Eden, crude but pleasant;

While vibro-atmospheric copulations

With mezzo-forte mysteries of noise

Prelude Stravinsky's statement of the joys

That unify the monkeydom of nations.

This matter is most indelicate indeed!

Yet one perceives no symptom of stampede.

The Stalls remain unruffled: craniums gleam:

Swept by a storm of pizzicato chords,

Elaborate ladies re-assure their lords

With lifting brows that signify ‘Supreme!’

While orchestrated gallantry of goats

Impugns the astigmatic programme-notes.

In the Grand Circle one observes no sign

Of riot: peace prevails along the line.

And in the Gallery, cargoed to capacity,

No tremor bodes eruptions and alarms.

They are listening to this not-quite-new audacity

As though it were by someone dead, – like Brahms.