Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jorge de Sena

CHOPIN: AN INVENTORY

Almost sixty mazurkas; about thirty etudes;
two dozen preludes; a score of nocturnes;
some fifteen waltzes; over a dozen polonaises;
scherzos, improvisations, ballades, four of each;
three sonatas for piano; and two concertos for piano and orchestra,
one berceuse, one barcalole, one fantasy, one tarantella, etc.,
besides some seventeen songs for voice and piano; a fatal case of tuberculosis;
a talent for concertizing; many mundane successes; an unhappy passion;
a celebrated liaison with a famous woman; other assorted liaisons;
a country without sure borders or definite independence;
the French Europe of Romanticism; several friendships with the eminent;
and scarcely thirty-nine years of life. Others lived less, wrote more,
tasted more bitterly the classically bitter bread of exile, were ignored
or persecuted, died forsaken, didn’t linger in alcoves
or salons of glory, confined themselves less to the instrument they had mastered most,
and were exiled longer in suffering for a non-existent country.
Besides, almost all the others escaped the repugnant possibility
of becoming a melody for virgins, a rhythm for the castrated,
a sham, a languishing, a nostalgia of illiterates,
and other vulgar, mediocre, and ungenerous things – as he did not. Or of becoming
a piece de non-résistance for performers who play for those who believe
they like music but really don’t. And what’s more,
he was a parvenu, a pedant sure of an aristocracy he couldn’t claim,
a reactionary anguished over revolutions that would liberate, among others,
the oligarchies of Poland – poor things. And, finally,
one begins to suspect he was not even a romantic,
at least not in the sense he pretended or let others believe he was.
A knack for composing music as one writes a poem,
a power disguising itself in languor, an air of inspiration
concealing the structure, a harmonious melancholy above
an ironic melody (or the other way round), the magic of rhythms
used to hide thought – and hide it so well
that he still passes for an ass of a genius, this man who had thought in his fingers,
whose boldness put on the mask of feeling and free forms
to create a self. So able in the kitchen, that he can be served
lukewarm, in hours of longing and sorrow,
hot, at those great occasions of triumphant life,
or cold, when music alone expresses the empty despair of being
nothing more in the world than a piano.

CHOPIN: UM INVENTÁRIO

CHOPIN: UM INVENTÁRIO

Quase sessenta mazurcas; cerca de trinta estudos;
duas dúzias de prelúdios; uma vintena de nocturnos;
umas quinze valsas; mais de uma dúzia de “polonaises”;
“scherzos”, improvisos, e baladas, quatro de cada;
três sonatas para piano; e dois concertos para piano e orquestra,
uma “berceuse”, uma barcarola, uma fantasia, uma tarantela, etc.,
além de umas dezassete canções para canto e piano; uma tuberculose mortal;
um talento de concertista; muitos sucessos mundanos; uma paixão infeliz;
uma ligação célebre com mulher ilustre; outras ligações sortidas;
uma pátria sem fronteiras seguras nem independência concreta;
a Europa francesa do Romantismo; várias amizades com homens eminentes;
e apenas trinta e nove anos de vida. Outros viveram menos, escreveram mais,
comeram mais amargo o classicamente amargo pão do exílio, foram ignorados
ou combatidos, morreram abandonados, não se passearam nas alcovas
ou nos salões da glória, confinaram-se menos ao instrumento que melhor dominavam,
e mesmo foram mais apátridas sofrendo de uma pátria que não haja.
Além disso, quase todos escaparam mais à possibilidade repelente
de ser melodia das virgens, ritmo dos castrados,
requebro de meia-tijela, nostalgia dos analfabetos,
e outras coisas medíocres e mesquinhas da vulgaridade, como ele não. Ou de ser
prato de não-resistência para os concertistas que tocam para as pessoas que julgam
que gostam de música mas não gostam. Ainda por cima
era um arrivista, um pedante convencido da aristocracia que não tinha,
um reaccionário ansiando por revoluções que libertassem as oligarquias
da Polónia, coitadinhas, e outras. E, para cúmulo,
a gente começa a desconfiar de que não era sequer um romântico,
pelo menos da maneira que ele fingiu ser e deixou entender que era.
Uma arte de compor a música como quem escreve um poema,
a força que se disfarça em languidez, um ar de inspiração
ocultando a estrutura, uma melancolia harmónica por sobre
a ironia melódica (ou o contrário), a magia dos ritmos
usada para esconder o pensamento – e escondê-lo tanto,
que ainda passa por burro de génio este homem que tinha o pensamento nos dedos,
e cuja audácia usava a máscara do sentimento ou das formas livres
para criar-se a si mesmo. Tão hábil na sua cozinha, que pode servir-se
morno, às horas da saudade e da amargura,
quente, nas grandes ocasiões da vida triunfal,
e frio, quando só a música dirá o desespero vácuo
de ser-se piano e nada mais no mundo.
Close

CHOPIN: AN INVENTORY

Almost sixty mazurkas; about thirty etudes;
two dozen preludes; a score of nocturnes;
some fifteen waltzes; over a dozen polonaises;
scherzos, improvisations, ballades, four of each;
three sonatas for piano; and two concertos for piano and orchestra,
one berceuse, one barcalole, one fantasy, one tarantella, etc.,
besides some seventeen songs for voice and piano; a fatal case of tuberculosis;
a talent for concertizing; many mundane successes; an unhappy passion;
a celebrated liaison with a famous woman; other assorted liaisons;
a country without sure borders or definite independence;
the French Europe of Romanticism; several friendships with the eminent;
and scarcely thirty-nine years of life. Others lived less, wrote more,
tasted more bitterly the classically bitter bread of exile, were ignored
or persecuted, died forsaken, didn’t linger in alcoves
or salons of glory, confined themselves less to the instrument they had mastered most,
and were exiled longer in suffering for a non-existent country.
Besides, almost all the others escaped the repugnant possibility
of becoming a melody for virgins, a rhythm for the castrated,
a sham, a languishing, a nostalgia of illiterates,
and other vulgar, mediocre, and ungenerous things – as he did not. Or of becoming
a piece de non-résistance for performers who play for those who believe
they like music but really don’t. And what’s more,
he was a parvenu, a pedant sure of an aristocracy he couldn’t claim,
a reactionary anguished over revolutions that would liberate, among others,
the oligarchies of Poland – poor things. And, finally,
one begins to suspect he was not even a romantic,
at least not in the sense he pretended or let others believe he was.
A knack for composing music as one writes a poem,
a power disguising itself in languor, an air of inspiration
concealing the structure, a harmonious melancholy above
an ironic melody (or the other way round), the magic of rhythms
used to hide thought – and hide it so well
that he still passes for an ass of a genius, this man who had thought in his fingers,
whose boldness put on the mask of feeling and free forms
to create a self. So able in the kitchen, that he can be served
lukewarm, in hours of longing and sorrow,
hot, at those great occasions of triumphant life,
or cold, when music alone expresses the empty despair of being
nothing more in the world than a piano.

CHOPIN: AN INVENTORY

Almost sixty mazurkas; about thirty etudes;
two dozen preludes; a score of nocturnes;
some fifteen waltzes; over a dozen polonaises;
scherzos, improvisations, ballades, four of each;
three sonatas for piano; and two concertos for piano and orchestra,
one berceuse, one barcalole, one fantasy, one tarantella, etc.,
besides some seventeen songs for voice and piano; a fatal case of tuberculosis;
a talent for concertizing; many mundane successes; an unhappy passion;
a celebrated liaison with a famous woman; other assorted liaisons;
a country without sure borders or definite independence;
the French Europe of Romanticism; several friendships with the eminent;
and scarcely thirty-nine years of life. Others lived less, wrote more,
tasted more bitterly the classically bitter bread of exile, were ignored
or persecuted, died forsaken, didn’t linger in alcoves
or salons of glory, confined themselves less to the instrument they had mastered most,
and were exiled longer in suffering for a non-existent country.
Besides, almost all the others escaped the repugnant possibility
of becoming a melody for virgins, a rhythm for the castrated,
a sham, a languishing, a nostalgia of illiterates,
and other vulgar, mediocre, and ungenerous things – as he did not. Or of becoming
a piece de non-résistance for performers who play for those who believe
they like music but really don’t. And what’s more,
he was a parvenu, a pedant sure of an aristocracy he couldn’t claim,
a reactionary anguished over revolutions that would liberate, among others,
the oligarchies of Poland – poor things. And, finally,
one begins to suspect he was not even a romantic,
at least not in the sense he pretended or let others believe he was.
A knack for composing music as one writes a poem,
a power disguising itself in languor, an air of inspiration
concealing the structure, a harmonious melancholy above
an ironic melody (or the other way round), the magic of rhythms
used to hide thought – and hide it so well
that he still passes for an ass of a genius, this man who had thought in his fingers,
whose boldness put on the mask of feeling and free forms
to create a self. So able in the kitchen, that he can be served
lukewarm, in hours of longing and sorrow,
hot, at those great occasions of triumphant life,
or cold, when music alone expresses the empty despair of being
nothing more in the world than a piano.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
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