Puccini on poets
by richibi
“Cigarette La Bohême“ (1879)
______
with a friend today over lunch I told
her that we’d watched, my mom and
I and a mutual friend, “La Bohème“,
an Australian production of it, Baz
Luhrmann directing, a man we both
knew, at my place last Sunday, we
were all wowed by it, I extrapolated
the only opera I’ve ever seen, she
said, was “La Bohème“
where did you see it, I asked, and
when
with my first husband, she replied,
in Vienna
was it wonderful, I inquired
it was, she answered, I had on a
long dress, my husband was in
coat and, essentially, tails, we
walked up a very long staircase,
I remember
coincidentally, the first time I’d
seen “La Bohème“ was also in
Vienna, I can’t remember the
staircase, couldn’t remember what
I wore, can’t even remember where
I was sitting, what I remember, as
though through a telescope, darkly,
was Mimi and Rodolphe looking for
the key she’d lost, on their knees
on the floor, in the dark cause her
candle ‘d gone out, he’d put his out
surreptitiously too to join her
your little hand is so cold, he sings,
when he, unforgettably, finds it
in this production, Rodolphe has
found the key but conceals it
from Mimi until she sees it in his
eyes, he pretends to return it but
instead manages to hold her
hand
your little hand is so cold, he
sings, again unforgettably
there’s nothing to fear, he
continues, the moon is out, let’s
get to know each other
who am I, he asks, to start the
conversation, I am a poet, he
declares, and proceeds to tell
us what it is to be a poet
you’ll be utterly enchanted
tell me about a world, I ask,
without poets, tell me about
a world without poetry
where would we be without
dreamers, I wonder, where would
we be without dreams
watch here, and wonder
Richard
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