Commemorating Chopin

It is the two hundredth anniversary of Chopin's birth. He was thirty-nine when he died. The achievements of the greats of the past who had such short lives seem extraordinary to me but I suppose many of the great still die young. Chekhov was forty-four. Both Chopin and Chekhov died of tuberculosis.

Much could be said about its rise again in Australia. Tuberculosis had been virtually eliminated here by a post war public health campaign.

The Gorbals were the slums of Glasgow, infamous throughout Europe until recent times.

Chopin Eyeing the Gorbals

Chopin had glimpsed the Gorbals

now hardly daring to inhale

had to get through

his étude.

Chekhov on his way to Badenweiler

for a respite said

no to ice on the heart

because it was empty,

yes a little,

to champagne.

Death came upon the midnight

in Moscow, Moscow, Moscow.

A wee toast to

Chopin

in the dry mansions

hovering in Edinburgh

hardly daring to hope

he’d get away.

The revolutions

were coming,

haemorrhaging up the stem.

La Traviata –

no-one remembers what it means –

sipping to slow the sinking.

Revolution bounces

on the bubbles.

Let them drink fizz.