after ‘Boléro’ by Maurice Ravel, which I saw performed live by the NZSO last week
I can fit my whole fist
inside the contrabass bugle
it does not muffle the human breath
breath that has a job to do
I confidently misidentify the cor anglais
I yell at the tuba player
that ‘tuba’ is latin for ‘trumpet’
I find the bassoon disconcerting
the unrelenting snare drum
makes me sick
I scatter the sheet music
like a lolly scramble for
people who enjoy paper cuts
the drummer is unthwarted
I grab the first violin by the collar
and hiss that my paternal grandmother
was older than this song so don’t stop playing
or I’ll have to think about what year it is now
I flop bodily across the podium
and beg the conductor to spin it out
a little slower and thicker
the way Ravel demanded
I skittishly rattle off terms at the harp player
side blown – internal duct – diatonic –
spike box – two usable membranes – with extra resonator
I cannot for the life of me hinder this harpist
the unrelenting snare drum makes me sick
when Ravel first played this piece
a woman in the audience shouted that he was mad
and Ravel said she alone truly understood it
finally someone dropkicks a clarinet
directly into my forehead
that was apocryphal says the piccolo player
this is apocryphal I reply
Toscanini told Ravel he didn’t know his own work
that it had to be faster
and Ravel said
then don’t play it
Ravel you inspirational little sicko
they called you the one who resisted being edited
spurned constructive feedback
taut and glib in the face of praise
and as the drop approaches
and the snare drum marches on like the Terminator
and you can feel the safe haven of C Major
nibbling at your pancreas
its fingertips skimming your earlobes
blurring into too-bright focus
plucking at your feathers
rendering you visible
glassy-eyed and hellbound
and your mouth is wet
and your throat is dry
and in that repulsive agonising imminence
thirteen to seventeen minutes
is a lifetime
and a droplet of spit
on a page of sheet music
all at once
