Martha Argerich

“She plays for no one,” they murmur…

buds of black orchids
slowly blossom at her touch,
and wreathe around
modest piano keys

her digits

as a caressing melody unfurls –
an unblemished rose, drawn
from magicians’ hats –
and then the music opens its infant’s eyes
and swells
as violins mourn deeply
to a growing confusion
of the grand witness of
drunken ecstasy
soaring skywards to the woodwind
lurching, twisting, unsure of where to go

and teeters on the edge of


A gracious finger,

is all
that she takes
to tear
her concerto

descending into an inferno against our will
breaking into a gallop
porcelain neck held at bay
by seduction’s glittering dagger
while ebony hooves graze
the fire’s greedy, outstretched hands

and then the earth splits into two

as we

fall, and


down, down, down…
(oh, but when will our accursed fate end?)

and land on soft, sticky moss
catching our breaths,
breaking into a run
violently skidding to a halt,
as pebbles fall over a rocky precipice –


drawing her fingers slowly,
as tender as can be…

opalescent eyelids, half closed
over liquid orbs
pausing, darkening
like the tempest of the century
as the tiniest carousel
lights up in her hands
and spins furiously

beneath a crimson sunrise;
where the clash of battleships over brightening horizons
cleaves the sea apart in a crimson uprising
as cries splinter ears and horse-carts overturn
in panic

“Danger, danger!” the french horn warns,
as her frail, bruised hands tremble

And the minutest glimmer of hope was thus born;
insipidity fermenting into dusky wine
as she reaches out
for the bloodied, glorious sun…

(A poetical tribute to Rachmaninoff’s first movement from Piano Concerto No. 3, and to Martha Argerich.)

(I’ve also written about fools’ gold.)

© Zelda Reville




4 thoughts on “Concerto

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