On Radio 4 this morning, there was a long feature on the world famous pianist Alfred Brendel, who turns 80 soon, and who has turned from playing concert piano to emphasising his role as poet, cemented by a new collection out any day now. Brendel has been published by Faber, and writes an odd sort of poem: free verse, mainly, with surreal or zany references to often musicological situations. His Mozart murder poem is a good example of where his ear takes him. I am not a classical music critic but accept Brendel's preeminence in that field. I wonder, would he be attended to as a poet otherwise? The UK has many equally (more?) deserving older poets of great achievement who could do with a spot on national morning radio, too. I raise this because in the piece he was asked whether he was a pianist or poet, and he had the modesty to say both. Glenn Gould, bless him, was a genius as an editor and radio man, but never let that get to his head. The title poet - for those who wish to take it - is always there, a hat on a high hat-stand we can all reach on tip toes - but those who claim the fedora should be careful it not slip off our too-big heads.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
Comments
Looking around my bedroom, I see three of my own paintings. Surely that qualifies me for an exhibition at the Royal Academy!