Friday Fugue

My understanding of a fugue is that it is a musical composition that starts with a theme that is retold by several distinct voices throughout the piece (typically orchestral voices) leading up to an episode that ends with a coda of the original theme where the piece is brought to a climax of explosive sound that is following the original theme. Whew, I almost need a cigarette after that explanation. Anyway, I wonder why poems can’t be written in a fugue mode. I suspect it is because poets and composers have a natural hate for each other that started from a rather ugly incident between a drunken Beethoven and a coffee sipping Peter Altenberg at the Cafe Central during a reading of an essay extolling the virtues of executing deaf composers.

Beethoven, having to read Altenberg’s lips, mistook the phrase “Who can bear another mind numbing chorus? Do we really need Fugue 2 Beethoven?” as a personal insult and proceeded to whip Altenberg’s butt with a beer stein. It goes without saying that each camp of artists defended the action of their man and from that time poets have avoided writing anything vaguely familiar to a musical composition. The purists even look upon the lyricists of the day as nothing more than a Judas Iscariot who borders on being an artistic whore.

I say we let bygones be bygones because of several reasons.

1. I’m not a composer and really have no enmity against poets.
2. I’m not a good poet so I can’t really take a self-righteous stand against composers.
3. I’m pretty much going to write about what I want to write about anyway so why let their feud stop me from having a little fun?

So here goes, a vain attempt at a poetic fugue.

Friday’s Fugue

(I’m starting the subject piece here, with several different “voices” chiming in to repeat the theme)

The laundry is piling up

My store of fresh underwear thin

Of detergent I  have but a cup

Not enough to even begin.

The laundry is piling high

The colors sorted from the whites

I’ve no Dockers on which to get by

So I should do laundry sometime tonight.

The laundry is covering my floor

Wet towels and dried rags scattered

And there are socks by the score

Stinking like they really mattered.

(Now we are sliding into the “episode” segment of this poetic fugue)

I drove past the laundry a minute ago

And the washers were all taken

The laundresses are moving to slow

And look to have eaten their fair share of bacon.

I stand at the door and stare them down

Giving them an impatient glare

But they chatter on in faded gowns

As if they didn’t even care.

I pace down the aisle of humming machines

Lifting up lids as I pass

A woman mutters something obscene

That would’ve made my dear momma gasp.

(Okay, pay attention now as we leave the “episode” and journey back to the “subject” or theme in a climatic fashion)

The laundry is piling up my peeps!

My store of underwear is thin!

My colors and whites are separated you creeps

And the smell of the socks makes me cringe!

The laundry is piling up fast!

Can’t you understand?

My poor wardrobe just cannot last

Without washing my clothes, man.

The laundry is piling up!

The laundry is piling high!

The laundry is scattered on my floor!

The laundry is piling up.

(At this point we would fade in a whimsical way that would leave the reader/listener with a bit of angst at the unresolved conflict of my laundry being in a bad need of washing.)

Well there you go! I hope the dust of ol’ Ludwig and Peter is resting easier after having experienced this little Friday Fugue.

Hope you all have a fine weekend.