PATHETIQUE

Peter, Ilya’s boy, son of the Tchaikovs,
I salute your courage in Symphony Six.
“Saddest music of all, the Pathetique,”
So said my father, and now my heart echoes.

You build from nullity to crashing anguish,
Try a lop-beat hopeful movement up,
Then the frantic frenzied dizzying pomp
Of a hurricane march, at last to fall and languish

Yearning, being torn, and falling. You kept
Faith in your vision; you weighed the money, acclaim
Success, and called it dust. No Job with lame
Consolations meekly to accept.

While the Ring resounds with faked resolving chord,
You proudly flaunt despair as truth ignored!

(32, July 10, 1992)