Josef Myslivecek

[BobBradshaw]

v2:

Josef Myslivecek



When I was fourteen,
Josef was Italy's boast:
everywhere he went
he was cheered.

Popular with women
he slipped in and out of lovers
as fast as he exchanged currencies
on one of his grand
tours.

Women from his past stared
into his eyes as if gazing
at a fire, their wedding dresses
ablaze.

Others smiled as if his eyes
were a diva singing
an aria dedicated
to them.

He was as generous
with his music as he was
with his bows, tutoring me
in composition.

I cried hearing of his health,
bankrupt, Josef
lying in a hospital,
an ass of a surgeon
clumsily having burned
his nose off.

I tried not to stare,
his face swathed in gauze,
his face welcoming, but stoic,
like paint under a southern sun
that refuses to crack.

I chirped away, singing
Vienna’s most popular tunes,
cheerful as a flute—

but oh the heartbreak
when I closed my friend’s door,
knowing the reckless rumors
of his disease
had spread faster
through Europe than the rashes
down his limbs,

Josef’s visitors having
forever vanished,
like his good
looks.



v1:
Josef Myslivecek



When I was fourteen,
Josef was Italy's boast:
everywhere he went
he was cheered.

As popular with women
as dresses,
he slipped in and out of lovers
as fast as he exchanged currencies
on one of his grand
tours.

He was as generous
with his music as he was
with his bows, tutoring me
in composition.

I cried hearing of his health,
bankrupt, Josef
lying in a hospital,
an ass of a surgeon
having burned his nose
off.

I visited, trying not to stare
at the bandages
on his face. I chirped away
about the latest music
in Vienna,
as cheerful as a flute--

but oh the heartbreak
when I closed my friend’s door,
knowing the reckless rumors
of his disease
had spread faster
through Europe than the rashes
down his limbs,

Josef’s visitors having
forever vanished,
like his good
looks.

[Bernie01]

Bob-----

my implacable prejudice, quoting a celebrity source with complete license and without any citation.

now, the pom itself...

i ask myself, am i reading because this is about a celebrity, or for firmer reasons?

in this case a very real drama unfolds with quick, clear and original lines.

I cried hearing of his health,
bankrupt, Josef
lying in a hospital,
an ass of a surgeon
having burned his nose
off.

I visited, trying not to stare
at the bandages
on his face. I chirped away
about the latest music
in Vienna,
as cheerful as a flute--




for me:

I cried hearing of his health,
bankrupt, Josef
lying in a hospital,
an ass of a surgeon
having burned his nose
off.

I tried not to stare,
his face swathed
in milky gauze, his great
head diffident and unbent.

I chirped away, singing
several popular Viennese tunes,
cheerful as a flute--fluttering
before him like wild birds he
once wove into his music.*

*Joan Sutherland singing a libretto from Motozuma.


more movement in the poem, quick jump cutting to assist a reader who might feel the text is not fully eventful.



I was fourteen
and his undeniable energy
would always convey Italy,
a few years later my first
success was set in the Seraglio.


Josef was Italy's boast:
everywhere he went
he was cheered.

As popular with women
as dresses,
he slipped in and out of lovers
as fast as he exchanged currencies
on one of his grand
tours.

try again, maybe, that line about the dresses....not a grabber. Yes/No?

Women moved their lips
as he spoke, fanned their bodice,
smiled into his great brown eyes.

Money, like women slipped
through his fingers.

He was as generous
with his music as he was
with his bows, tutoring me
in composition.

But there was only
a final act with no encore.


I cried hearing of his health,
bankrupt, Josef lying in hospital
wounded like a Moor on a Turkish
battlefield, an ass of a surgeon
clumsily burned his nose off.

I visited, trying not to stare
at the bandages
on his face. I chirped away
about the latest music
in Vienna,
as cheerful as a flute--

but oh the heartbreak
when I closed my friend’s door,
knowing the reckless rumors
of his disease
had spread faster
through Europe than the rashes
down his limbs,


Josef’s visitors having
forever vanished,
like his good
looks.



and i could not whistle his tunes
as i walked, my mouth stiff and cast
into permanent mourning.


Bob, what about using the "stage name" that followed him?
Il Divino Boemo, or the Divine Bohemian: Josef Myslivecek.

visual. fast, easily understood. and at several levels as the poem makes clear.

a challenging undertaking, i liked the poem and i liked learning about this life, so inspiring and tragic.




bernie

[BobBradshaw]

Thanks, Bernie... you have given me a lot of great suggestions...I will follow up...my goodness you write beautifully...best

[BobBradshaw]

Let me know what you think, guys....best

[BobBradshaw]

Regarding sources....If there was one source, it would be Mozart's letter where his father discourages him from visiting Myslivecek...saying it would be a shameful thing to do...words to that effect, anyway. Mozart calls the surgeon "an ass". Mozart is the narrator in the poem. I also read as much on the net as I could find....I couldn't find any books on Myslivecek. But there is a lot of his music available.

Here is one source on the net that translates part of the letter(not the translation I read, which was from a complete collection of Mozart's letters available in a book at Amazon and elsewhere)... http://bernardgordillo.com/voices-from- ... -the-bone/

[IndianaDP]

Hi Bob, I was unfamiliar with this story so your poem had me captured. The stanza concerning the ‘ass of a surgeon’ was especially striking. As always Bernie give you some excellent thoughts, good luck as you finalize, it’s a beauty.

[BobBradshaw]

Thanks, I hope to see more of your poems soon

[Bernie01]

Bob---


hope you like the revision as much as i do.


bernie

[BobBradshaw]

I do. You're an invaluable resource, Bernie. Unbelievable, really. Best...

[Bernie01]

Bob---


my prejudice is talking first person in the voice of another....developed as a journalist....bugs me, though, in any other arena.

since the musician, in your poem, is unknow, what if his unknown doctor spoke the poem?


speaking like Mozart....bothers me....a few months ago, a poet spoke like Marilyn Monroe. i didn't mean to quarrel, but sadly that happened. no one else ever seems uncomfortable....


(and thanks for your very nice remark.)


bernie

[BobBradshaw]

Masks and the employment of them through first person narrative have been around forever. I love Browning’s stories, told by priests, criminals, etc. It’s a subject we can disagree on... I respect your opinions highly. Best...

[Bernie01]

Bob---


priests, and criminals....clearly....as i have a prostitute tell the story as she knew it about Claudel...


very different in first person where the poet speaks for the celebrity.


bernie