The Cymbalist and the Escaping Angels

The cymbalist sits,
silent brass plates, handle sides up,
on a stand dressed white before him.
His head moves to the first winged stirrings
of violin, viola, cello,
all taking off in pursuit of Paganini.
With the sound of hummingbird wings,
they rise, float above the conductor.
The cymbalist smiles, nods his head,
but stop, the bassoon's lamentation
draws them back to earth;
piccolos mock the Icarian attempt,
and the tuba, trumpets and tympani
sound an awful warning.
The strings go silent on a bump
plucked note of the double bass,
and the oboe breathes an end,

but then, the piano interludes,
soft at first, building a division,
while trumpets talk in the background,
leaning into each other
like disciples at a last supper.
The French horn's logic calms them,
and the last piano chord carries on a pedal,
but before it finds silence,

the conductor nods to the violins,
and up they go in a happy flush
with cellos right behind;
and up stands the cymbalist.
He leans into his music,
gently lifts the cymbals.
The conductor waves to the brass,
and off they go in chase.
The violins circle the ceiling,
but the brass stops on that height,
and looking down they offer all Faustian delights.
The cymbalist taps his foot to the counterpoint.
The violins are frantic with decision,
but "CLASH!" goes the cymbalist,
heaven opens up,
and they sail through that incision.


(Arkansas Magazine, Arkansas Democrat, February 9, 1986)