There it was.....but now 'isn't'.
That old scratch,
The deafening gaffe
Afflicting the Adagio,
Taunting the Beethoven splendor
Marring the solemn bar-
With a skip-tick, skip-tick, skip-tick:
After all these years-in memory
Against even the Master, having the final dig.
Scratch that even the wizardry of Bang-Olufson
Can't diminish: pointless, the trick
Of freighting with coins the stylus' head
Fond, the hope of slowly bruxxing the scratch from the wax-
Or whatever the rainbow-ridden things were pressed from,
Until finally the scratch
Just became part of the score,
A reminder that nothing is perfect- -
Or stays that way for long-not even Beethoven.
Scratch. At such time, such an age.
Scratch. At such age, such a grade.
Scratch. At such grade, so bent,
Scratch. So bent, the music figured this,
That or the other thing. We change. Scratch,
Til, heard now
On the radio, scratchless, clean.
Oh, audiophile, do you miss the scratches of yesteryear?
Familiar insults to fresh roads prefer?
Either way, we never forget them, scratches. Not entirely.
They etch themselves deep in memory- 'here.'
In this or that preferred version: noisome
Artifacts, recalled with grim precision-
Many would miss them, if in one or other edition
At least, they didn't recur.
Others might insist the wretched scratch
A useful part of this or that tradition-
But not me. I don't and disagree.
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Comments about this poem (Scratches by Morgan Michaels )
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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