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<< Continued from last week
Part 2
Few have suffered a press more disastrous than the Ukrainian Vladimir
de Pachmann. This week, in the second of two instalments, we conclude a
long-forgotten eulogy by the English Decadent Arthur Symons (1865-1945)
- a remarkable attempt at conveying sound and time through words and images,
the fabled through the fantastic.
Arthur Symons
PACHMANN AND THE PIANO
~ 2 ~
The sounds torture me: I see them in
my brain;
They spin a flickering web of living threads.
Like butterflies upon the garden beds,
Nets of bright sound. I follow them: in vain.
I must not brush the least dust from
their wings:
They die of a touch; but I must capture them,
Or they will turn to a caressing flame,
And lick my soul up with their flutterings.
The sounds torture me: I count them
with my eyes,
I feel them like a thirst between my lips;
Is it my body or my soul that cries
With little coloured mouths of sound, and drips
In these bright drops that turn to butterflies
Dying delicately at my finger tips?
Continue >>
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