by Brett Rutherford
Three friends and I
crossed a long field,
skirting the wetlands behind
our dismal college.
On a dare, we each in turn
sang out the opening bars,
and major themes
of every movement
of all nine symphonies.
Beethoven, deaf,
cared not what key
we sang it in, but would
have smiled when we reached,
at last, the Ninth’s Finale.
We did it, we who sipped wine
on Ludwig’s December birthday.
Not one of us
was a music major.
We knew these symphonies
the way we knew to breathe.
These nine stupendous works
cap off a vast and free
inheritance that belongs to all.
Today, I mention the Master
and those works’ long shadows
over everything that followed,
and most of those around me
squirmed and changed the subject.
Poor fools, do you think
there’s time enough in Heaven
to attend to serious music?
Who leaves a check
for a million dollars,
a life of ecstasies and joy,
unclaimed, uncashed?
