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That Music is the Spur to all Licentiousness
(Janacek in love)
That little birds would flutter to
his Katya's grave his Kyrie in Glagolitic
sing out lustily a Gaspodi pomiluj.
Salva! (Gloria!)
But non credo in Signeur Dieu by god
whispered every violin he heard
some gypsy dorian raised fourth cantabile his word consumed &
sounding out napevsky Ka-mi-la. Half his age
and twice his muse she'd be his Katya his Kabanova
his lesson to Renard and Reieneke
on how to chase a fox in old Moravia. Bystrouska!
Still those two quartets would feed on crazy
Tolstoy fed on Kreutzer weeping presto by the moonlit
porch at Yasnaya Polyana: Tender Lyovochka all
undone and fucking Sonia in the nave of his own niet
a Pozdnychev strung out in Prague sul ponticello.
That music is the spur to all licentiousness
the maestro doubts. His love unconsummated he embraces
only sound. And it dissolves.
And when the Angel asks him would he
make his peace with God the dying Janacek replies
but what is peace
and what is would
and what is god Janachkova.
--John Matthias
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