Rostropovich in London, 1968

 

by Brett Rutherford

Never on such a night did a London audience sit
raptured yet each at the edge of their seat, as Slava played

the yearning and passionate solos, ensembles and rests
of the Dvorak Cello Concerto. They saw that he wept
as he played, sobbing at times; they saw how his face was flushed

and red, as though he had been called to bar, a criminal.
All underscored the urgent throb of vibrato, the long,
long arc of his bowing, the endless homesickness and love
of a Czech composer an ocean away from homeland.

All this while the Soviet tanks rolled across the Moldau
and Eastern Bloc forces occupied the streets of Prague.