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Il Castrato
Bologna, 1782
Come closer, nephew, nearly son
of mine;
Draw up a chair and read my will
to me.
"I, Carlo Broschi of Bologna,
known
As Farinelli, do bequeath this
day
My worldly goods . . . ." What
goodly goods they were.
That portrait of King Louis
framed with diamonds,
Five hundred livres for an
evening's work
When I was merely twenty-three.
And then
The Stradivarius, "Four golden
strings
For a golden voice," from an
admirer.
It was at home in Naples I
debuted,
A fifteen-year-old songbird
warbling trills.
Soon I was cheered in Venice,
Rom, Milan;
The crowns of England, France,
and Spain concurred.
In Italy they called me il
ragazzo,
But also il castrato—lest I forget
My wound, my manhood taken for my
song.
Yet God provided maestro Porpora,
Who taught my throat above three
octaves range,
My lungs to hold a note one
minute long.
My Spanish visit grew to twenty
years,
Ten years alone to cure the
melancholy
Of the dour king, who had me
sing, each night,
The same four songs to lullaby
his soul.
The next king gave me greater
wealth and knighthood;
With my beloved Metastasio,
I gave Italian opera to Spain.
The home, at last, to Italy,
where Gluck
And Mozart dined with me.
And now, to die,
But not before I left my mark in
air,
My purest notes ascending to
God's throne
As smiling angels tilted their
heads to listen.
Two hundred fifty notes in a
single breath . . . .
Continue nephew; let me hear your
voice.
Carolyn Raphael
From
The Most Beautiful Room in the World : Poems by
Carolyn Raphael,
David Robert Books, © 2010 by WordTech
Imprint, Cincinnati, Ohio. |