Poem: Lament of the Opera Critic

Lament of the Opera Critic

I hereby apologize to all tenors, soprani, baritones, mezzos

for the finely crafted butchery I am about to perform

but pouring gallon after gallon of music into a pint jar

one is bound to spill

Suzuki, Butterfly

what you did just there

that long-stemmed Janus tone

witchcraft limbs spread out over a Nagasaki hilltop

drilled into your lungs and throat

memory of your muscles

countless green-room repetitions

It's gone, I'm sorry

no more than a comma, a police department sketch

Pinkerton

Yankee pig, treble slut

coming in cold from the waterfront

spinning out great reeling ribbons of sound

straight through the wall of orchestra as if

you had been saving breath

all the way across the Pacific

It's gone, I'm sorry

modifying phrase, leaf on a koi pond

Madame set designer

you with the boxtop moon and skateboard walls

sliding around like wolves in a pack

Monsieur conductor

free-barter tradesman of tempo

figuring tariffs between pit and stage and

launching great ships with a stick

And you, ever-neglected oboist

waking the grieving bride from her sleep

I am so, so sorry

but this portal of ink is a rough, dull instrument

a chopstick in the hands of a Texan

trying to scoop up any measure of your depths but

falling always short

See the rainfall of black rice on newsprint

your sweat, your breath

the calluses on your fingertips

the numbers dancing through your head

the imitation heartbeat pacing your limbs

But believe me

for all the dripped-off ice

cream warmed-over last

week's chow mein pared-off gristle

that I parade as journalism

I admire you all the more

am constantly thrilled at the way you

turn yourselves inside-out on the

carousel pegs of a Saturday night

just so you and I and a thousand others may

live someone else's life, die someone else's death

and sing a song of centuries

From the collection Great Showtunes of the American Stage  

First published in Comrades.

Photo by MJV