(No, not “the pits”,
His art is no vehicle to your vacuity,
But Rather a means to your unfurling)
Curled fists swing dance around
allegro con spirito.
Crass brass out-bass the violins while their
Palpable angst and sweat stain the concrete;
Bows of their brothers viola scratch
In futile defense against the bent-legged trombone breath.
Woodwind would wind and will
Still staccato belted bellows.
Cellos are wailing aloud!
Crowd of ornery misfits bang their bodies
Not unlike slabs of cherrywood until
Twelve minutes and ten seconds into
his piano concerto number one in B-flat minor,
a thunder strike sends the crowd into a grand ripple
Boom
Piano-light feet of the mob scatter
pitter-patter into the rain.
ABOUT: Tchaikovsky’s concerto no. 1 reminded me of a heavy metal mosh pit. My brain is always clashing genres like this.
