The Pianist

For Chopín, Szpilman, and myself.

I.

"Nothing will come ... nothing but reflections, shadows, shapes that won't stay fixed. I'm trying to find the right colour… What if I find nothing but moonlight?"

I am in exile over the keys, my life a string of minor

Revolutions forcing me out, a series of improvisations

Runs of bitter notes, an unfinished engagement.

The Russians came.

My heart was firebombed in Dresden,

Run out of Paris,

But made it home to Warsawa,

At the last.

II.

The realities of histories are daily,

And while we endured them we mostly thought

Not of so many high things,

Just of traumas, of escape, of bread.

I was saved from starvation by Chopin and those Jews

Who had the money and strength to sell out their friends and sell

Contraband.

I was saved from Treblinka by a coward and a traitor who pulled me from a line.

I was saved from the ghetto by the resistance who locked me in a room

For the duration of the Warsaw uprising; I almost died.

I was saved by a German tank shell which opened the wall, let me out so I could eat.

I was saved by a Nazi captain who found me and kept me alive.

He told me to thank God, because it must have been His will.

They kept me alive for my hands, for Chopin,

For pity.  It was no strength of mine,
I mostly sat in rooms and tried to survive. 

Everyone is alone in a war. 

The things you see separate you out

And even when circumstances shove you together

You are still alone.

The sky is a minor black and the moon is a lonely key

In the moonlight you can smell them burning bodies.

III. 

Chopin locked my eyes

And my heart flew the cage

Everyone is alone in a world.

Fires sparked out in Dresden,

My lips loaned out to Paris,

The girl at the café in Warsaw smiled,

But didn’t go walking with me.

I am in exile over the keys, my life, a string.

A string of surrenders forcing me out,

Unstarted engagements, running by the sea,

No one came.

The realities of living are daily

And while we endure them we mostly think

Not of high things,

Just of traumas, of bread,

Of arms and escape.

I was saved by God and more than a

Few friends and strangers.

Must be a thousand times already.

I thank God, because it must have been His will.

They kept me alive for my hands, for Him.
It was no strength of mine.

Everyone is alone in a war.

The sins, they separate you out.

And sometimes even when you pray

You feel alone.

No one will come,

No one but reflections, shadows, shapes.

There are holocausts in my head.

I’m trying to find the right colour,

But all I can find are nightshades.

The sky is a minor black and the moon is a cold upper C.