The Piano
It stands in silence.
In solitary stillness,
It is waiting.
My fingers
Are yearning to know it,
To create
A living madness.
Suddenly, with foreign motion
They become strangers
My total being becomes
A perfect chord
The song is passion
Uncontrolled:
A brief explosion of impotent beauty.
In the attempt
To curb anarchy
They lose all meaning
Beauty is cacophony
Stiff, stubborn, cowering in
Fear, in rawness
Aimless.
They’re wrecking sharpness
Like a faltering drunk,
They stumble and slice the
Purely separate, unfeeling keys
With unpracticed imprecision
Slow, working certainty
Hands and music collide
1 comment:
As usual, the poem has fresh images and lyric flow. Is this one about playing the piano? Emily Dickinson did not use title, but I like titles as a way to guide the reader to a focus or topic or purpose. Your title is a date. I wonder what happened on that day. Did you have a piano lesson, or a concert?
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