Early Music II

Les Barricades Mystérieuses
François Couperin (1688—1733)

It set you thinking, didn't it?
My little rondo à clef?
I work by these plinks the
harpsichord makes as I play it
deep in my thoughtless night,
just listening—
plink, plink, plink—
waiting for the thought that will
last beyond the night.

It's easy making Masses for my King,
fizzy glories for the
vapid at Versailles
--though He is far from stupid!
But these endless Books, made
to stretch you students, or
at least your fingers
--they make me money.
Yes me—organist at St.Gervais
at sixteen, "organiste du Roy" at twenty-five,
the King's Harpsichordist, too—
I need money!

For Royalty pays in fine things but
rarely cash—hard coins I can
clink together happily in
otherwise empty pockets.
So I write these things at night—
Books, orders, suites—and
pray God my tap
never runs dry.

Tic, Toc, Choc—hours drip by
as ink dries on paper and my
infants' hunger sharpens my quill
quicker than a knife
and this sweet rondo slipped out from
my muted keyboard—sshh!
my children sleep, my
wife snores softly —
and mid-night I can't help but laugh,
mid-folly, mid-despair.
I rush to write things down then slow
--to name them, but.....

A rondo is a round, and round it goes
--I can't stop playing these infectious steps which
sweep me around this dark room
dancing with candles,
as though there were some
mysterious barricade between
me and it
and sleep.