Mary Ann Unrau (MASTER OF MUSIC, 1973)

THE CREMATION OF BARTÓK’S SONATA
“…. with apologies to Robert Service:”

Presented to Dr. Damjana Bratuz on May 15, 1993 in thankful recognition and partial payment for my years at Western under you tutelage

There are strange things played under London’s moon
By musicians young and old,
Academic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold
Talbot College has heard oh the queerest sounds
But the queerest I’d ever thoughta’
Was on the stage May fourth with that old Bösendorf’
I cremated Bartók’s sonata

Now Doc Bratuz was from Trieste
Where great artists bloom and grow
Why she left her home on Italia’s coast
For North America, God only knows
She was always alone but the winter wind’s moan
Seemed to hold her like a spell
Though she’d often say in her cultured way
That she’d “sooner live in hell”

On a late spring day we were crashing our way
Over the tempo giusto
Talk of being bold! When the rhythm took hold
I was forced to play con gusto
If my ears I’d close then my fingers froze
Till sometimes I couldn’t play
But Doctor Bratuz found the obvious truth
“Do only what Bartók say!”

Among her directives for piano defectives
Some resound in my ears to this day
“Enough bow for all!” I’d hear her call
“No, no … the hand sideway!”
In the Dirge “Exhale!” I’d hear her rail
While my lungs felt they’d explode
“The tension in the middle” she’d proffer like a riddle
“Same as Buddha, practise your breath-hold!”

“Differentiate planes!” was on one the banes
That threatened my very existence
“One axis” I thought, was worse than taxes
Worse yet was “resistance, RESISTANCE!!!”
“Nourish” was one that really did flourish
Years later it helped with breast-feedin’
“Not a gong – make it long” she’d say of the song
For parlando I was all but unheedin’!

“Being There!” from Damjana was regular fare
Peter Sellers had yet to be heard from
“Dynamic equality” wasn’t matched with dextrosity
“Brakes!” and “concave” struck me thumb-dumb
“Stay left” was an order she’d often resort-ter
“Syllabic” I’d try to realize
“Pinch the fifth!” made me wish I’d taken recorder
Much as Bratuz I did idealize

“Resist!” was a word we from our ‘teach’ heard,
Long before the feminist throng
Came along in dull frats’ to give men the raz
And where solos like Dam don’t belong
Never “in” with the men with their ties and their phlegm
And yet “out” with the politically corretic
Damjana tried to order students cultural disorder
But at Western she was an heretic

My memories return to the day I did learn
That the beautiful young Dam was my ‘teach’
Barely older than me, she did wear a bikini
Which I spied on her while at the beach.
This paragon of learning was always a-turning
Great questions – a strain on her brain
Five lingoes she spoke, in a cadence that broke
The dull brashness of Canajuns a-braying

If my memories hold it was the summer so bold
That men first stepped on the moon
It was then I decided and with Damjana abided
To study and live in that room
Underneath the old house with Dana the mouse
A Slovak who worked at the U.
Bratuz elders I met who were kind and who fed
Expressos, heavy cakes – all were new

But to Damjana I owe it, twenty years don’t destroy it,
The procession of figures and thought,
From BrancuSi’s eggs to Mohammed Ali’s legs
Kandinsky, Barzun, I’m overwrought!
Venus de Milo, Edward Cone, Dante, Burton the clone,
Scofield, Furtwängler, Kirkpatrick,
Roland Barthes, Thurston Dart, Stanislavski, on I drone
To Damjana these were a skilled hat-trick!

And if as a teacher, no-one else could quite reach her
Let’s celebrate her greatness tonight
Camille Paglia can’t catch her let alone even match her
Sharp as sharp, quick as quick, bright as bright.
For now as her peers and with so many years
We can set our debts to Damjana right
Try to read, hear and weigh every catch-phrase and creed
Never yield to the easy and trite

Alas back we go, with an inexorable flow
To that night ‘neath the glare of the jury
I labored to show it, to capture and bestow it
On the listeners in all of its fury
Tempo giusto – parlando, non troppo – allargando
The moments, they passed in a trance
“Stay true to the script” I could hear as I tripped
Over song, over speech, on to dance.

There are strange things played under London’s moon
By musicians young and old,
Academic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold
Talbot College has heard oh the queerest sounds
But the queerest sounds I’d ever thoughta’
Was on the strange May fourth with that old Bösendorf’
I cremated Bartók’s Sonata

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