Zum Thema Mozart und Gedichte kann ich Ihnen diese Seite empfehlen. Das ist die Seite von Georg Nikolaus von Nissen. Und da gibt es ganz, ganz viele Mozart Gedichte. Wenn Sie zwei gelesen haben, wird es Ihnen reichen. Dann lieber so ein kleines Gedicht wie das von John Updike, in dem ein Mozart Klavierkonzert vorkommt. Das findet sich in dem Post Klavierkonzert No 24. Und wenn Sie eine Interpretation zu dem Updike Gedicht brauchen, dann lesen Sie den Post Nationalstolz.
Mein Gedicht heute ist von dem amerikanischen Dichter Robert Pack, der im letzten Jahr im Alter von vierundneunzig Jahren verstorben ist. Er ist in Deutschland kaum bekannt, obgleich er deutsche Vorfahren hat. In Amerika galt er aber als Nachfolger von Robert Frost. Sein Gedicht Looking at a Mountain Range While Listening to a Mozart Piano Concerto wurde 1980 veröffentlich. Ein Jahr zuvor hat er das Gedicht bei einer Dichterlesung vorgetragen. Er sagt bei diesem ✺Vortrag auch einiges über das Gedicht, das hat er er bei Lesungen wohl immer getan. Man muss sich etwas Zeit nehmen, um das Gedicht zu verstehen, man muss es zweimal lesen. Das ist wie bei Mozarts Musik, die man auch beim zweiten und dritten Hören besser versteht:
Looking eastward through my picture window
over the snow, the sun just down, I see
the mountain-range hazing to one shade of blue;
now with the trees obscured, it is a sweep
of shape darkening so flat, one might not
recognize a mountain-range at all— its
silhouette is just a wandering line,
drawn by a hand that might be falling asleep
or else so free that every arc it makes
of rise or fall expresses the contentment
that it feels at heart, although it leads
nowhere but on, and might as well drift off
into another range of further blue.
Brightly the piano asserts its melody;
the orchestra gathers its colors to reply,
true to the law that everything responds,
nothing is left unanswered, that variation
extends the self-as if one’s life were made
essential in a piano’s theme, departing
then returning one to what one is.
And now again it is the piano’s turn,
and now the separate instruments, again
as one, move onward to their chosen end
beyond which nothing else will be desired.
And so my ears pulse back into themselves;
my eyes return to seeing what they see:
the mountain’s silhouette-a floating line
leading my sight where visible blue ends.
It is an end in thought-my life goes on,
here I am deciding what to play next
as you appear and freshly I recall
when I first saw you, twenty years ago,
playing your flute. I thought of waterfalls
in moonlight, orioles in cherry trees—
they blossom and still flourish as I choose.
Your smile extends the silence of your pause,
and then, as if unsure where to go next,
you walk adagio past me out the door,
just as I hear the piano enter in.
over the snow, the sun just down, I see
the mountain-range hazing to one shade of blue;
now with the trees obscured, it is a sweep
of shape darkening so flat, one might not
recognize a mountain-range at all— its
silhouette is just a wandering line,
drawn by a hand that might be falling asleep
or else so free that every arc it makes
of rise or fall expresses the contentment
that it feels at heart, although it leads
nowhere but on, and might as well drift off
into another range of further blue.
Brightly the piano asserts its melody;
the orchestra gathers its colors to reply,
true to the law that everything responds,
nothing is left unanswered, that variation
extends the self-as if one’s life were made
essential in a piano’s theme, departing
then returning one to what one is.
And now again it is the piano’s turn,
and now the separate instruments, again
as one, move onward to their chosen end
beyond which nothing else will be desired.
And so my ears pulse back into themselves;
my eyes return to seeing what they see:
the mountain’s silhouette-a floating line
leading my sight where visible blue ends.
It is an end in thought-my life goes on,
here I am deciding what to play next
as you appear and freshly I recall
when I first saw you, twenty years ago,
playing your flute. I thought of waterfalls
in moonlight, orioles in cherry trees—
they blossom and still flourish as I choose.
Your smile extends the silence of your pause,
and then, as if unsure where to go next,
you walk adagio past me out the door,
just as I hear the piano enter in.
The mountain’s silhouette is now less sharp.
Something seems missing as the record ends,
spinning with a hiss that empty space
must make between the stars. I move the needle
to the start, and light the lamp above my chair.
There are no mountains any more, only
my reflection in the picture window
like a surgeon’s X-ray, ghostly and remote.
I hear the introduction once again;
the piano sings so freshly that I feel
the reason why the orchestra replies. And
you return, carrying the flute
your fingers have not graced for twenty years—
as if a poem had conjured up the past
to ease the fear of darkness and of chance.
The one star in the sky is not enough
to light the mountain-range where darkness holds
the shape my window-frame provides. Once more,
for the strings’ sake, the piano states its theme;
the violins are moved, they love their part.
Although I cannot see the dark beyond
my mountain’s dark, I’ll not leave love to chance;
I watch you in the window coming near
as if to the conclusion Mozart had in mind.
Something seems missing as the record ends,
spinning with a hiss that empty space
must make between the stars. I move the needle
to the start, and light the lamp above my chair.
There are no mountains any more, only
my reflection in the picture window
like a surgeon’s X-ray, ghostly and remote.
I hear the introduction once again;
the piano sings so freshly that I feel
the reason why the orchestra replies. And
you return, carrying the flute
your fingers have not graced for twenty years—
as if a poem had conjured up the past
to ease the fear of darkness and of chance.
The one star in the sky is not enough
to light the mountain-range where darkness holds
the shape my window-frame provides. Once more,
for the strings’ sake, the piano states its theme;
the violins are moved, they love their part.
Although I cannot see the dark beyond
my mountain’s dark, I’ll not leave love to chance;
I watch you in the window coming near
as if to the conclusion Mozart had in mind.
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