We lost Rostropovich today. I wrote this poem about him years ago:
Rostropovich in Moscow
(from the documentary film)
—A little honest practice on the cello.
The Prokofievian strains
come out of the man-cello as simply as breath.
The friend starts to leave, politely.
Rostropovich says—No no you stay beside me.
I can practice with you here, you are like my family.
But he doesn’t play much, he talks about Moscow,
about leaving, about playing, about returning.-We never twisted our souls-we never said what wasn’t true.
The other Russians nod and understand the word soul,
that he uses so often.
The music is soft and thin like an old linen sheet;
Rostropovich says—This part of the concerto turns my soul inside out.
The Muscovites drink in their nourishment
after the long drought.
