Get Your Premium Membership

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 © | Year Posted 2018

Post Comments
Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.