Poem: An Opera House

III

Within the gold square of the proscenium arch,

A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds,

Its tassels jarring slightly when someone crosses the stage behind.

Gold carving edges the balconies,

Rims the boxes,

Runs up and down fluted pillars.

Little knife-stabs of gold

Shine out whenever a box door is opened.

Gold clusters

Flash in soft explosions

On the blue darkness,

Suck back to a point,

And disappear.

Hoops of gold

Circle necks, wrists, fingers,

Pierce ears,

Poise on heads

And fly up above them in coloured sparkles.

Gold!

Gold!

The opera house is a treasure-box of gold.

Gold in a broad smear across the orchestra pit:

Gold of horns, trumpets, tubas;

Gold - spun-gold, twittering-gold, snapping-gold

Of harps.

The conductor raises his baton,

The brass blares out

Crass, crude,

Parvenu, fat, powerful,

Golden.

Rich as the fat, clapping hands in the boxes.

Cymbals, gigantic, coin-shaped,

Crash.

The orange curtain parts

And the prima-donna steps forward.

One note,

A drop: transparent, iridescent,

A gold bubble,

It floats...floats...

And bursts against the lips of a bank president

In the grand tier.

Amy Lowell, from Men, Women and Ghosts