Once upon a time
Artur Rubenstein sat before a Steinway
or a debauched Bechstein
and contemplated a nocturne.
Chopin’s soul spoke to him
as he fingertipped the ivory
and he thought
Once upon a time
Frederic Chopin put ink to parchment
or wrinkled foolscap
and noodled with a tune.
The night air spoke to him
as he twirled the quill
and he thought
Once upon a time (and perhaps tonight)
I imagine a flapping tent near a dusty tell
or a dynamited pit
and examine a graven pendant.
The troy weight speaks to me
as I polish Priam’s hoard
and I think
Once upon a time (not long ago)
men averred the Homeric siege a mere legend
or foolish outmoded myth
and deemed themselves wise by comparison.
Their intellects spoke to them
as they quelled a vision
or so they thought.
I know these things to be true
because I sit in my chair
pen in hand
journal on lap
as Rubenstein now speaks to me:
nocturnes recorded in 1956
digitally remastered in 1989
ripped to MP3 in 2013.
Artur connects me to Frederic
of a still spring night,
transports me to a lost century
when Schliemann learns of a legend
and hearing believes
and believing seeks
and seeking finds
Once upon a time