Posts Tagged ‘piano’

Dear Ludwig,

Before I knew of you,
I knew your music.
When I turned the flat metal handle
of my pale pink jewelry box,
Für Elise would play as a ballerina
in a white tutu would spin and spin
and I would hum along
until the music slowed
into garish metallic plinks.
Part of me envied Elise—
that someone would write her
such a beautiful song.
Now I know you wrote it for Therese,
a woman you wanted to marry,
but in transcription
your handwriting was misspelt,
and the error lasts to this day.
And Therese, she had no interest
in marrying you.
Oh, Ludwig, I, too, know
how the heart sometimes longs
for what it will never have.
I know how our words are twisted
till they plink, till the plunk.
I know how mistakes
sometimes stay with us forever.
What I meant to say is Happy Birthday,
Thank you for daring to love
even when it hurt.
Thank you for transforming your pain
and rejection into music so relevant
that 250 years later its played
as cell phone ring tones.
Thank you for teaching me
as a girl how to hum along—
for giving me the reason
to turn that flat metal handle
again and again and again.

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There was that summer
when my record player broke,
the needle always returning
to the first song and playing
the whole record again and again,
through morning, through midnight,
and so George Winston’s Winter into Spring
played all through my summer.
Soft and pensive, each melodic phrase
hung spare in the air as if inviting
revelation or breath
before burbling forward like snowmelt.
How I loved that summer,
every moment of it kissed
with chords shattered into arpeggios,
silences and grace notes.
Sometimes breaking brings a gift
we didn’t know we needed,
the way a broken record player
steeped me for months
in the grace of a melancholic beauty
and made the haunting familiar.
The way a broken heart can bring up
a record of beautiful memories,
one after another, day after day,
and somehow heal us by making a masterpiece
of the wreckage.

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One Rusty




stumbling through

the Moonlight Sonata

while outside the window

a twilight birdsong—

not one note out of place

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all day the upright

grand piano dreams of hands

that play sonatas

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A piano is just

some wood and strings

until it’s touched—

and then it sings.

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Thank you for the Gnossienne No.2,

and for the directions

you wrote above the staves.

“With amazement,” you wrote,

at the start of the piece.

That is what I told my hands

as they bumbled tonight

through the melody.

Thank you for the melody.

Just today I saw

with amazement the four plover eggs

still intact in the nest,

though I could tell

by the wet silt around them

that the high water

had covered them.

My friend said she thought

they might not hatch.

I watched as the mother plover

ran at the river’s edge,

pretending she had a broken wing,

attempting to distract us.

“I think they will hatch,”

I said, though the words were said more

out of longing than belief.

Sometimes longing

is all we have.

“Don’t leave,”

you wrote in the score.

That’s what I thought

later today when

I saw the lonesome

duckling in the pond—

no mother, no father,

no other baby ducks.

I longed to be a mother duck,

to know what a baby duck

might need.

As it is, I gave it space,

knowing sometimes

giving space

is the most generous thing

we can do.

I do not want space.

Tonight I saw a picture

of my friend with her newborn girl,

both of them naked,

skin to skin. That

is what I want.

“With great kindness,”

you say, and that

is the way I want to live

this song of life—

in amazement and with

great kindness—to know

myself as the kind of melody

that might be played

poorly and still sound

beautiful because

the hands that played me

did it “lightly, with intimacy,”

though the keys keep changing

though the timing is unmarked,

though the song doesn’t end

anywhere near where it begins.




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Votre âme est un paysage choisi / Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques / Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi / Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.

            —Paul Verlaine, “Claire de Lune”



I hate the way my fingers stumble

through the prelude—in my ear,

it is beautiful, the phrases open

and flowing, and I hum sincerely, as if

with song I could make my hands

more nimble. There are fields,

golden, inside the arpeggios,

and they part as if the wind has blown

a place for a path, and then

a thousand thousand birds

take flight just before night—

or at least that is what I

want to hear. But I am clumsy,

an oxen trampling in the field

who trips in every irrigation ditch.


I have read that by the time

the suite was published, Debussy

hated the sound of it, deplored

his earlier style. I try to imagine him

here in the living room, his thin moustache,

his thick black bangs, oh how

he would cringe, revile my lack

of sensitivity. And how I would hate

to disappoint him. Both of us

miserable, both of us abhorring

what we hear—I would stop playing,

I would, and walk over to him

as he scoffed, and I would say,


Look, look Claude,

how the moon is full, so large there

on the horizon. And we’d step

out onto the porch.

There would be no birds,

no wind to part the field,

and he would slip his hand

toward the moon, and say,

There, there, that is what I was trying to say.

And I would let my empty hands


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Cosi e’, se vi pare
(That’s the way it is, if it seems that way to you)
—Italian saying

Under my fingers,
the chords are familiar,
allegretto, in 2/4 time.
I lean into the ritardandos,
swelling the passing tensions,
failing to remember to exhale.
The lyrics, perhaps because
they are in German,
are beautiful. I can forget
that they speak of sleepless
nights and helplessness,
and dreams that languish
unfulfilled. My voice drifts
into the rafters. What
do I know of dreams?
There is so much I do not know.
Even this life I call my own.
What do I know of it?
Who taught them to sing,
the birds in autumn?
Who taught them to dance,
the leaves? Tonight, I do not see them,
the shadows my voice moves through
as I follow the staffs in front of me.
Nor do I think of translation. Nor
do I think of who is listening,
nor of who is not. For now,
there is Schumann and Heine,
there is this voice that is borrowing me,
there is this song that says
it must be sung.

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Dusting the Piano

The best part, of course,
is dusting the keys, sliding

the damp rag

from top to bottom, from high

notes to low,

over the blacks and into
the valleys of the smooth

long whites, how

a showering of music then

fills the room.

I nearly wish there were

more work

to do. Sometimes I forget there
is joy to be found in just touching

a thing, though

I have touched it a thousand

thousand times

before. How the skin meets it
anew. Sometimes I forget that

I know what

a hand can do, oh the smooth

of it, oh

the slide, the skim, the skate of it,

oh the slipping,

the flutter, the long and longing

(remember?) glide.

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“Mom,” he says,
“I love this note.”
I sit beside my boy
on the bench
and I say, “It’s a D,
a low D.”
And he plays
the white key
again and again
and again and
again with animal
ferocity. “Can you find
another D?” I ask,
and he finds another,
to my delight, and another
and another and another.
Then he plays the Ds
with two hands—
one a bass and one
a thrumming, heavy beat.
Again, again,
again, again,
his body is a-thrill
with it. “I love this note,”
he says again,
his eyes electric,
wild with tone,
“Mom”, he says,
“will you write
this down?
Please mom,”
he begs, as he
hammers the Ds
with an almost
violent grace.
While he sleeps,
I draw the darksome notes
in his rhythmic trance
on two otherwise empty staves.
The notes are the Union
Pacific westbound;
and they are the boy,
his feet eager as he pounds
across the field;
and they are the railing
of hail in the orchard;
and they are the hands
of a boy who is banging
out his rampant joy, freed
from a language
dipped in lead,
God, he’s free,
he is pushing all of himself
into D; and they are
the boulders
tumbled by snowmelt,
thundering along
the full riverbed;
the sound of the heart
when it beats for no reason
except that it
was made to beat.

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