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Lachrimae Pavan by John Dowland

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Lachrimae Pavan by John Dowland (1562-1626). Played by Phil McKelliget on a Masuru Kohno guitar.
I like this piece so much that I wrote a poem about it...
Lachrimae Pavan
His lute strapped to the back of a donkey,
John Dowland, master of the cult of melancholy,
Is smiling as he bridges the Alps. He dreams
Of playing to a lady of the court of Florence.
She inhabits sound, strain and flourish, chords
Pressing like sunlight on pewter. Her silent face,
So excellent in woe, advanced by the art
Plucked from the gut by his alchemic fingers.
But discovers in Florence those fingers trembling.
He is Dowland the Catholic now, astonished
At his artlessness, for tonight he will dine
With John Scudamore, priest and plotter in exile.
An image jostles him as he plays – London
And the etched horror of the quartered papists.
'God he knoweth I never loved treason
Nor never heard any mass in England'.
Four hundred years between your penned fear
And this obscure occasion: Lachrimae Pavan
Nascent beneath my fingers. Your famous phrase,
The most sublime expression of pain, is falling.
Particle and wave, her grief-transfigured face
Spinning in the riddle of an atom in a bullet
Lodged in the brain of a bleeding victim somewhere.
And a fleck of gold is pressed into being.
I like this piece so much that I wrote a poem about it...
Lachrimae Pavan
His lute strapped to the back of a donkey,
John Dowland, master of the cult of melancholy,
Is smiling as he bridges the Alps. He dreams
Of playing to a lady of the court of Florence.
She inhabits sound, strain and flourish, chords
Pressing like sunlight on pewter. Her silent face,
So excellent in woe, advanced by the art
Plucked from the gut by his alchemic fingers.
But discovers in Florence those fingers trembling.
He is Dowland the Catholic now, astonished
At his artlessness, for tonight he will dine
With John Scudamore, priest and plotter in exile.
An image jostles him as he plays – London
And the etched horror of the quartered papists.
'God he knoweth I never loved treason
Nor never heard any mass in England'.
Four hundred years between your penned fear
And this obscure occasion: Lachrimae Pavan
Nascent beneath my fingers. Your famous phrase,
The most sublime expression of pain, is falling.
Particle and wave, her grief-transfigured face
Spinning in the riddle of an atom in a bullet
Lodged in the brain of a bleeding victim somewhere.
And a fleck of gold is pressed into being.
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