Bach’s Retraction

I made nothing—
that has to be said
at first, not the little
klavierstücke so loved by parents
(hated by children) not a cantata
toccata, passion, chaconne,
not the great fugue, none of it
I made.

Nor, and this is hard,
was I its instrument—not one breath
in the pipes that caused these hands
and feet to dance on burnished wood
was mine. I felt that breath,
thought it, I suppose, like Pascal’s
reed, knew it even for what it was
«soli deo gloria» but I never . . .
better to say, my God,
that it made me.

And the great fugue?
I laid it out, signed it, sought
to perfect it, failed; but the heart
of it, peace to men of good will—
good will the highest good of all
sublime above all other—some profess
they were taught it by a philosopher;
I forget his name, a pietist I think,
no matter. That was the great
fugue, not mine but God’s.

Had I been its instrument
I should have died sooner, incarnate
lost in its incarnation, surviving
only as long as memory lasts;
but we know that God’s music (there
is the word) sheds its skin like cicadas
I used to find as a youngster in Eisenach
choristers whose thousand juicy voices
thronged high summer nights. Nor was

the what the wonder, more nearly the whence—
brilliance of silence unfolding with jeweled speech
(don’t believe the philosophers, music is sound)
and oh my Lord my God the rush of it, sometimes
not to be borne, the organ bench my only safety,
only calm in the wind that made me crazy!

The muse first sought me out in the church
at Arnstadt; we made music weekdays
until the council discovered us.
An angelic flute she was, in the antique
style, God’s voice a violone,
wheeling like the planets—I had been
to Lübeck to hear Buxtehude play
overstayed my time, neglected my choir . . .

I’m no good for philosophy. Give me black
and white keys, wood diapason, reed diapason,
gut, tin, or brass, handy, homely things: I am homesick—
always was homesick—the great fugue
took me home.