A Butterfly in Odessa by Howard Lieberman The medium suits her, and she sings; she sings as if absolutely alone, Surrounded by simulations of grief: desertion, denial, umbrella’d by umbrage, eyes aflame with a kindle of tears. What is that for which she really weeps: this futile place, that distant, venal State, that flat, fatiguing mediocrity in which she lives? Around her here’s a shell, (call it opera declasse) once grand, its gold baroque, ablaze, its ornamentation now as discombobulated as some ancient ruin, mosaics chipped, (the style degenerate Byzantine) unreadable as a deeply buried book. As if to bemoan the scarcity of coal, a pervasive chill, the impossible plumbing in that echoing hall, the dismal lack of costumes, and a set that’s not even remotely Japanese, she opens her mouth in plaintive complaint that that American has not returned. Perhaps it was an errant translation that they used, but all of the other voices are out of sync. Hers rises, like a tremulous flower, from the dust Don’t you know me, she grieves, I’m the one who dies for what she believes. Though the world about her drifts like an unmanned ship, and Odessa lies drearily in mist, this love-torn fluttering phosphorescence adorns my consciousness like a perfect pearl. On any stage she’d be a prize , but here, lapped by the inland sea, she shines: Aurora of the Glorious Tones
Origin Stories – A Butterfly in Odessa
I did not know, at that time, that this was an earlier version of Madama Butterfly, in two acts, as compared to the fourth and fifth versions that are more common to us in the States. Nor was there any identification of any of the singers.
And only the glorious Butterfly stood out, perhaps even more so because of the banal remainder of the cast. She was, however, so fine, so delicate, so pure, that after completion of our cruise, I wrote to the Metropolitan Opera, suggesting that she be imported to New York. And later that night, back on the ship, I was aroused enough to write this poem. No reply, however, from the Met, but I still remember her voice, and the intensity, the depth, of her loss.
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Previous Origin Stories
April 1 – Wanda Praisner
Previous NPM celebrations from Gyroscope Review
Let the Poet Speak! 2022
Poet of the Day 2020
Poets Read 2019
National Poetry Month Interview Series 2018
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