Coping with Romanticism

My wife is gone, and Bruckner’s Fourth is on
full blast: Romantic’s what it’s called. A beer’s
in front of me, of course. The slabs of sound
build slow, misterioso: here on Earth,
the lovely ache of purple dusk or dawn.
I’m sad and happy all at once. My fears,
those briars binding me, an angel gowned
in light cuts through. The music swells: a birth,
a death, a glimpse of hell. Of heaven. Write
of life, my wiser muse suggests, as I,
brimmed full of bliss, glide fast from giddy height
to kitchen sink. Composed, I now know why
old Wordsworth counseled calm, tranquility:
advice to seekers of sublimity.

 

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