August was the uncruel month that year.

I remember morning sun glimmering through heat-mists over the Starnberger See

and castle gates opening at first light

to welcome musicians for early rehearsal.

Later, on the green,

leader and follower assembled:

allies in paired counterpoint.

A multitude of subjects crowded in on each other.

“This music crept by me upon the waters”

In the field the trumpets trilled,

chasing the dreams of sonorities unbound.

He said, “Cosima, Cosima . . . ”


I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

By and by

(the midday sun pursuing ennervated shadows)

Hofbrau beer quenched the thirst of their enthusiasm.

Then king and subject were alone:

“We were born one for another.”


“Yes, majesty, my co-creator.”

Years passed.  August followed August.

The end surprised us coming under the Starnberger See.

Fear death by water.


Tell me this poem is any worse than the following crap in The New Yorker !!