Hovis

Listening to Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9

“From the New World”

It begins with a tap on the shoulder

A horn call

Oboes arching to octave

A sort of “wish you were here” a

“Come let us stroll along

Those chordal paths

Those misty regions

Where trumpets rise sequoia high

And woodwind choirs sing low.

Where the hush of flute and horn

Fall moccasin soft

On tender homesick melodies

Between subtle intrusions

Of kettledrum and brass

And cakewalk rhythms pander

To the syncopated beat

Of dancing feet

Before embarking

On hair raising tonal excursions

To distant keys and cotton fields

The Hovis people spent hours trying to decipher this poem before sending me a very nice letter