If an autumn glare here kissed the glass,

then a room in despair here loved the rays,

when a quiet sun so creeping began

to shine on the books of a lonely man,

 

for here, in this room, a study subsists,

and the wrens, outside, and chirping commit

to ruptures of a heart now singing red

as the leaves, outdoors, without words said:

 

that B goes flat when a poet compares

such longings of soul to notes and keys,

where G, also flat, like B now dares

turn sorrow to love, as misery pleads

 

to swallow the light of dust revealed

as particles soar in the air seen here,

where shelves so kiss such thoughts, concealed,

where men in the legions of writing such sealed:

 

what ridges of mind are cliffs as deep

as oceans alive and thrashing still:

to grow loud, then quiet, this song well keeps

such sounds, contrasted, as an F chord and trill

that rings below, as ominous, and dark,

as a man hung low, off a tree’s rough bark!

 

Yet, let this not so terrify much,

since precious, they are, those lyrical ropes

that everywhere else, here, tie the bunch

of nostalgic caresses, and ethereal hopes,

before it all shifts, and a C sharp hunch

comes creeping in hints, like a ghost that mopes.

 

This the parting farewell, the last of pain,

That Franz so seeks, for Schubert to sing,

since forward, from here, comes A to explain

why the wagons of tears break wheels and cling

to fecund, green earth, where the horse’s mane

drapes near sweet eyes for hooves to ring

these bells of grass that make one sane

when the bluest of skies embraces the wing

of an avian charm, in an aerial lane,

that for a black heart, a dear light will bring!

Although, quite brief, he reminds of mourning,

it all parts quickly, as rapid demands

the tonic, returned, and cheerfully scorning

the bend of a frown, in threefold command:

 

a rhythm in threes, and a tense F sharp,

the Scherzo begins to sound a brief thought,

when soaring elation, as light as a harp

comes rushing about, since surely one ought

 

to leave in a moment, those somber tones

which, come now alive, in this last Movement,

open and shout in a minor G prone

to embrace a rogue C, and spark an improvement

 

of all man’s troubles in musical dance

as eyes dry away what sadness sought

to darken within an unraveling trance

that now turns away, where a Presto bought

 

such time to conclude what long had told

an account so grand as Schubertian tales

in a wretched such land, this callous and cold,

where his interlude links our pain with the hails

that a Caesar receives, whether by cowards, or bold

such hearts enough brazen as to high seas sail!

 

These words, and more, are those one can say,

when the tails of notes now kiss the eyes

that, longing, demand these stories at play

and the polished rails of a palace that flies

 

into dreams of a type that a man can see

as vivid as truth, or the sun, or a tree,

when he never forgets what all can be

when the piano’s pleas dare set him free!

 

Many the thoughts of sorrowful spells

might charm the soul with a dreadful hope,

but music can show what levels of hell

may perish and flash from life’s hard maze,

 

and again shall we now revisit the room

where this Song began, with the wrens’ own tunes,

with the books well clad, and the sunlight’s hues,

and the lone, cross man, with all that he rues.

 

Everything ends as it sang and began,

And in this dear truth is the drama of man!

What do we have, but notes and plans

that die as they start, in forgotten lands?

 

But remember, sweet friend, that when flat goes the B,

then follows the G, the C, and the three,

to kiss the room’s glass, with the autumn glare,

 

to reveal such dust, so holy and fair

enough to repair even sad blank stares

and stall, and impair,

All the world’s

 

Bloody Snares.

 

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “Ode to the Twenty-First Piano Sonata of Franz Schubert”, 12-23-25

 

© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith