Wrapping Christmas presents, listening to Bach.
Shapcott’s Variation on Schoenberg’s orchestration of Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in E flat major, St Anne
Where does it come from this passion
for layers? I could eat the lexicon,
breathe whole fugues in German and Latin,
rub notes on my skin to make my pores sing.
I love it, like this, when I lose touch
with whose the voice is, whose the fingers
on the bow, the pen, whose mouth
the noise belongs to in the end.
Numbers make me tremble in Spring.
I want to counterpoint them until I careen
off the edge of the world disputing
with God himself about the number seven.