LAMENT FOR THE MAKARIS: HOMAGE TO WILLIAM DUNBAR

8 0 Y L A M E N T F O R T H E M A K A R I S H O M A G E T O W I L L I A M D U N B A R L O R R I E G O L D E N S O H N In health and lonely sickness the Victrola comforted me, Winding round and round until it wound down, And then the thing had to be cranked up So that the glorious voice would not wobble and quaver Or the Blue Danube run down, in softe sommer, as it Orbited the grass, there in Long Island, Leaving me in fear of the death of joy. And where are you collecting now, my old LPs? Slickly ten- or twelve-inch, you were A black thread encircling the heart, Only Victoria of the Angels knew how far You could swing me, riding out, and then yet Farther out – on one note, and then the next – each Sweetness leaving me in fear of the death of joy. And where are you? Store with the wide aisles I patrolled, Eyeing the delicious, glamour-coated boxes, each More ardently coveted than the next, O Fischer-Dieskau, Where are you, each of your performances in place No longer: the shelves stu√ed to a di√erent tune, A di√erent singer, the marquee given over, The management deaf to the death of my joy. This fals world is but transitory, its flapping sheet music, Its pianola rolls, also the black vinyl in the extremity Of its shine – even the brown overheated audiotapes uncoiling In their cases as the hapless fingernail fails to spool them back, 8 1 R They join the cracked CDs wending their way to landfill, The bent antennae of all those radios not spared to linger, They too shake silently in fear of the death of joy. The stait of man dois change and vary. The pianist with only one good hand after the war Has come to rest, he takes no more taxis, he lies down In the dirt with the rest of the dead musicians, The rest of the silenced instruments, banished From the chambers where the white-stringed earbuds rule, while A greyhaired audience weeps in fear of the death of joy. Marjorie tucking in her Sunday skirt, seats herself at the upright – Before she moved, unmercifully, a continent away from me. Four-hand Mozart on the rack, sherry bottle on the lid, Our fingers, un-arthritic, now swept into the bin beyond recycle. Husbands and children scatter before us, while we laugh In our fearless racket, slow on the fast notes, fast on the slow – Deaf, dumb, and dead now, the making of that joy. ...