Fugue, Harpsichord

For Sylvia Marlowe

Out of her left hand fled
the stream, from her right the rain
puckered the surface, drop by drop, the current

splayed in a downward daze until it hit
the waterfall, churned twigs
and leaves, smashed foam over stone:

from her fingers slid
eddies, bubbles rose, the fugue
heaved up against itself, against its own

falling: digressed in curlicues
under shadowed banks, around root tangles and
beaver-gnawed sticks. She had the face

of a pike, the thrusting lower jaw and silvered
eye, pure drive. The form
fulfilled itself

through widowhood, her skin
mottled with shingles, hands crooked, a pain
I fled. Now

that tempered tumult moves
my time into her timing. Far
beyond her dying, my

tinnitus, I am still
through the thrum of voices
trying to hear.
Credit

Copyright © 2018 by Rosanna Warren. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 11, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

About this Poem

“Sylvia Marlowe was one of the great harpsichordists of the twentieth century, a student of Nadia Boulanger and Wanda Landowska, and herself a famous teacher for many years at the Mannes School of Music in New York City. She was a close friend of my family, and I grew up listening to her recordings of Bach and Couperin and often visiting her in New York City. I have tried to translate into words my impression of her playing Bach’s preludes and fugues. Of course, the poem plays on multiple senses of fugue.”
—Rosanna Warren