Prelude in E flat: Dinner in Raymond

(1)

A farewell summer dinner
In a professor's country home--
Not even suburbia.
He hates to be alone.
He presided from his armchair.
His wavy white hair was
Reminiscent of the long-ago lounge lizard,
Parted in the middle and sleek.
In liquid brown eyes shone the soul of Cervantes.
In the diminutive figure
One found elegance and cheek.
And one sensed he'd lived fully.
Knew secrets. Knew love.
(And maybe even hate?)


(2)

"No, Germans don't write belly-laughing comedies,"
He said, and we laughed and sipped wine and we ate.
Maintained, "Lessing's 'Invalide' is seen with some hate.
I never expected that of him! Beethoven's symphonies?

I love him, though I don't understand what he meant."
He patted his overfed dachshund and laughed.
"I spoil her too much! ---Still I want you to grasp
What literature is about! A critical descent

Into a work of art's meaning does not destr0y,
But adds to its' beauty, solves many mysteries---
May provide an insight into one's own small history.
It is like good wine; meant to be enjoyed.

Once while in Africa, I saw the moon rise.
It was golden and so huge I thought
I could reach out and touch it. Ach, Gott!
Did you ever observe a moon that size?

I mentioned it is easy to say, 'be charitable'.
But what sort of an impression would it make?
What sort of impression can it make,
Since I myself am not charitable.

We speak to better the world.
Only if you understand the problems
Of the small, and what bothers them
Will you understand those of the larger world.

I will miss you when the school year's over.
I'd go crazy without young people, so bold.
Please retain your ideals. Hang on to your goals.
You've enough time for the rut once you're older."

(3)

His parents were Spaniards.
He grew up in Berlin
In the Age of Heine,
(When one still believed in Sin.)

He spoke french at the consulate,
And spanish at home,
Learned German on the streets,
And english on his own.

He dreamed of being a doctor,
And his studies advanced
Until ninteen-thirty-three
When he had to flee to France.

Upheaval took him to Africa,
To Mexico, then the States.
Found no chance to become a doctor,
And so taught german, accepted his fate.

And he taught it with the sort of love
That only the wise can give.
Taught ideals as well as symbolism.
Taught us what it means to live.

He only feared the solitude,
And a second heart attack.
More than once he'd stared at Death--
And Death had stared right back.

He only spoke of envy once,
And that in a quiet hush:
"Those people with religious faith...."
He wished that his were such.

In the end they forced him to retire,
Because 'he did no reasearch.'
Instead he taught us how to see,
And for what it is worthwhile to search.


(4)

A farewell Sunday dinner
At a professor's country home.....
Not even suburbia.
He hates to be alone.
"Don't ever lose your values, please."
He smiled. Eyes brimmed with tears.
"I'll miss you all," he told us.
"Come visit if you're near."
Then he called his dachshund to him.
The door closed.
He disappeared.