The Muse of Music

If I speak of the Muse of Music, it’s not to pretend

To believe in a dead mythology but to try to explain

The difference between saying my brother Robert

Wrote music every morning from his late youth

Into deep old age because he enjoyed it

And saying he felt that music was all-important,

That living well meant bringing its beauty

Into his life, meant serving the enterprise

Blessed by its unseen sponsor, the Muse.

For her he skimped in grade school on lunches

To save up for another recording, on seventy-eights,

Of the trios, quartets, and symphonies of the great composers.

For her in high school he disregarded completely

The big concern of his age group—fitting in—

To devote his free time to being inspired

By her truest followers. If you ask me

Whether I think the Muse returned his devotion,

I can answer that the chorus of seven singers

He wrote many songs for, over many decades,

Believed she did, and the cast for his musical.

And I can add that he never spoke of his service

To her as a chore, though early on he was homesick

After he went away to study composing

At the music college our father didn’t believe

Could make him employable. If the Muse was watching

When the family drove out to meet the plane

Bringing him home for summer vacation,

She must have cherished him even more

After noting our dapper father’s disappointment

With his son’s appearance. There he was,

Stepping down the ramp with his long hair

Not combed even once, it appeared, since Thanksgiving,

With a sport coat that seemed to have doubled as a pillow

And shoes scuffed past the help of any polish,

An ensemble that told the Goddess plainly

He only had eyes for her.