Music

Beethoven bawdily twists, as only he can,

beneath a sparkling chandelier in a

central Bruges concert hall – sweet and clear

when a man and his girl start giggling,

taking photos, yelling like fishwives

intertwined with four-stringed instruments

and I feel strong emotion – ‘Shall I, shan’t I?’ urges – you know;

dare I, well, mention it, ask them to shush? When I do lean over,

say ‘scuse me , would you mind being quiet?’ and the man simply

nods, I turn accusing, burning eyes, ‘Are you sure?’ and he

looks away, a little scared. I sit back, indignant now,

fired by inner anger. ‘What if he thumps me

as we leave?’ I say to myself, completely ruining

Ludwig’s capacity. I know this idea – do you have the anger

or does the anger have you? And the string part seethes higher, more

vibrato than ever. Sitting back, eyes closed, I enter the sound

with hundreds around, transported by melody,

letting it go; letting myself; letting my dissonance go.