A Poem for All Writers

What Became of It


Stravinsky, it is written somewhere,
was entranced by his first contact
with the pianola, imagining, then,
a music free of the unreliability
inherent in human performance.

Oh, how we cry when we think of it:
that first statement of perfection
become the summary
of all forthcoming attempts

without the interpretation of upstarts–
without the play of humidity on the strings–
without the meanness gathered
line by line while our thoughts wandered--
without, let’s face it, error.

Oh, that one first vision, once,
be cut in stone, what was meant
become immortal,
rather than what became of it.