Mr Strood
Mr Strood
The high room, the bright light, the plentiful mirrors
the long sweep of lace curtains, the many faces..
She wondered whether music lessons were part
of her dreadful experiences
of playing before people. The very first time
she had played- a little running melody in the treble..
a page of minims, the minims had swollen
until she could not see whether they were lines or spaces,
her fingers had been so weak
after the first unexpectedly loud note
that her fingers suddenly stiffened
she worked them from her elbows like sticks-
dreadful movements - She heard nothing but
hard loud minims to the end,
As she stood, dizzily up, someone
said she had a nice touch-the piano should always remember
the clear pieces by heart-
through trembling fingers the notes
fumbled and slurred into each other.
At musical evenings she had both played and sung,
each time afresh to the effects which came
so easily when she was alone,
but she could not discover the secret of
when she had been
too miserable to be nervous
and Mr Strood, astonished, listening,
thrilled to her from behind the piano
Suzanne Delaney
Found Poem
Pointed Roofs
by Dorothy Miller Richardson
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2018
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment