Poem - the Maestro
theKwek seems to be going on a musical rampage. Shortly after The Violinist, he fired us another letter, tied to a magical arrow which whistled into our offices. Untying it, The Straight Times editors found not an essay, but a poem - a reflection upon a musical orchestrator who generally stands in front of ensembles and directs them with a magic wand. The Straits Times reports:
THE MAESTRO
On the silent balcony stood he,
Gripping his beloved baton,
His weathered hands, now small and weak,
Which once the audiences won,
Trembled so slightly in the breeze,
As his heart was gently torn
Glimpsed in the shadows of long-lost time,
He saw his youth once more,
How he pranced, he danced, he sang, he cheered,
Full of unending vigor,
With sweeping strokes he directed his players,
Standing proudly at the fore
Upon receiving his degree he rose through the ranks,
Beginning with humble ensembles,
He leapt, versatile, from schools to districts,
Breaking all social norms,
Then rose to the nations a proud young man,
Straddling the wings of song
Before long his skill had swept the world,
Unbeaten, Unique, Unequalled,
He bagged awards, nominations, prizes, trophies,
Leaving all peers astounded,
The musical world stood ready at his command,
And gladly he accepted
But then, alas, terrible calamity arose,
For though in music peace was begotten,
Greater mankind was plunged into worldwide war,
From Moscow to Manhattan,
Bullets, Bombs, and Battleships reigned,
As Music lay forgotten
The tyrants, allied, strong and powerful,
Crashed into his undisturbed life,
Barracks were made of his concert halls,
Poverty was rife,
Tanks slammed sharply the doors of music,
And all gave way to strife
His maestro’s suit thus cruelly removed,
He sought to find respite,
Playing in taverns, pubs and alehouses,
Non-stop from morn to night,
Praying that a kind soul of compassion,
Would rekindle his youthful light
But what is hope in a barren world,
That can ease a burdened man?
A soul parched for want of musical oasis,
In a desert of blinding sand,
Where joyful tunes are slaughtered by violence,
And rhythm by the cunning hand
Not caring to replace that ebony baton
In his antique concert case,
He flicked it away with a practiced throw
And turned his tear-stained face
Towards the dull-grey lifeless street,
His heart an emotional maze
Without blinking, flinching, speaking, swallowing,
He stepped upon the stool,
His linen shift fluttered in the evening breeze,
Once so refreshing, once so cool
With a breath he leapt forward, off the seven-story balcony,
And his soul to the heavens flew
Where eternal choruses he would sing,
And angelic praises mutter,
Where there was peace and music and life,
Where notes ran helter-skelter,
Where he would forever conduct those heart-rending tunes,
With St. Peter his concertmaster.
On the silent balcony stood he,
Gripping his beloved baton,
His weathered hands, now small and weak,
Which once the audiences won,
Trembled so slightly in the breeze,
As his heart was gently torn
Glimpsed in the shadows of long-lost time,
He saw his youth once more,
How he pranced, he danced, he sang, he cheered,
Full of unending vigor,
With sweeping strokes he directed his players,
Standing proudly at the fore
Upon receiving his degree he rose through the ranks,
Beginning with humble ensembles,
He leapt, versatile, from schools to districts,
Breaking all social norms,
Then rose to the nations a proud young man,
Straddling the wings of song
Before long his skill had swept the world,
Unbeaten, Unique, Unequalled,
He bagged awards, nominations, prizes, trophies,
Leaving all peers astounded,
The musical world stood ready at his command,
And gladly he accepted
But then, alas, terrible calamity arose,
For though in music peace was begotten,
Greater mankind was plunged into worldwide war,
From Moscow to Manhattan,
Bullets, Bombs, and Battleships reigned,
As Music lay forgotten
The tyrants, allied, strong and powerful,
Crashed into his undisturbed life,
Barracks were made of his concert halls,
Poverty was rife,
Tanks slammed sharply the doors of music,
And all gave way to strife
His maestro’s suit thus cruelly removed,
He sought to find respite,
Playing in taverns, pubs and alehouses,
Non-stop from morn to night,
Praying that a kind soul of compassion,
Would rekindle his youthful light
But what is hope in a barren world,
That can ease a burdened man?
A soul parched for want of musical oasis,
In a desert of blinding sand,
Where joyful tunes are slaughtered by violence,
And rhythm by the cunning hand
Not caring to replace that ebony baton
In his antique concert case,
He flicked it away with a practiced throw
And turned his tear-stained face
Towards the dull-grey lifeless street,
His heart an emotional maze
Without blinking, flinching, speaking, swallowing,
He stepped upon the stool,
His linen shift fluttered in the evening breeze,
Once so refreshing, once so cool
With a breath he leapt forward, off the seven-story balcony,
And his soul to the heavens flew
Where eternal choruses he would sing,
And angelic praises mutter,
Where there was peace and music and life,
Where notes ran helter-skelter,
Where he would forever conduct those heart-rending tunes,
With St. Peter his concertmaster.
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