Bach?

Bach? When people ask why I like Bach, I ask them to stop and listen.

Hear the way your heart, exactly ninety beats each count, maintains tempo in spite.

Now stretch this beat tight as a drum. Uniform in fact, but never quite unfeeling.

To all the same is given; Twenty-four hours, minutes seconds, yet it’s what we do that matters.

Uniform as all, our Bach has a way to show life’s metonymy. And what’s he got in waking days that I do not, or can’t?

In movement two of his concertos- still 60 beats each count. How briefly though his emotions soar Pure agony calculated.

In life I face each day the same My tempo never changing. And passing thoughts canvass my mind Misery for just a moment.

In constant chaos all around I wish not for my Romantics. No sweeping Liszt, no glassy Ravel The Bach’s the thing that makes sense.

Same tempo, same volume, same classical rhythm. but his light shines through much brighter. and to me it’s where it matters.

I listen for not of the shape for the math is all consistent.

I listen for the oddities the four-to-three suspension. The passing tone- then sudden atone to stick to the form he’s given.

We’re all ensnared with boredom. Trapped in a cycle (a fugue, in fact) So why would I not like him?

Think of any meal you like. And what if, I’d ask, you’re so inclined, you could also eat the plate? The fork, the knife, the water cup, All in form, in function, in flavor it follows.

When people ask why I like Bach, I ask them to stop and think. Use his music as your backdrop And impart your own reflection.