Best Musicpeople Poems
FULL HOUSE
“Full house,” she said “Every seat’s taken
There’s an excitement out there!” she said
All he saw was the empty stage
a Steinway Grand its bench
His accompanist stood off
cigarette in hand just exhaling a puff
so unconcerned
He was nervous very nervous
but then
He was always nervous and for hours before
He’d thrown up in the rest room a few minutes ago
Nothing new
He often threw up before a recital
Wild thoughts went through his head
(those tall thick billowing curtains
looked strangely threatening
so dark blue grotesque)
His mouth felt dry
(what if he should choke during the opening work?)
He felt a bit dizzy
(what if he should pass out?
the fall shattering his priceless Stradivarius)
Was it too late to cancel the concert?
(he was still slightly nauseous)
What would people think?
What would people say?
His accompanist was so calm
(his accompanist must hate him –
hope that he might play poorly
look how he raised his chin as he inhaled
staring eyes
what was he looking at?
What was he thinking?)
There was that one passage in the concerto
(he’d played it hundreds of times
never satisfied
never quite perfect
what if he fumbled that passage
even just one note?)
His tails felt tight
(he should have had them altered
What if the underarms split out?)
Everything at once!
He felt like running!
(don’t be ridiculous!)
His manager was all smiles
“I tell you, Robert, there’s excitement out there!” she said
Robert’s knees were knocking
“You all ready?” she asked
Robert nodded, yes
The house lights dimmed
Boris, his accompanist, stomped his cigarette
“Out you go!” she smiled
(please don’t tell me to ‘break a leg’) he thought
I love the songs of working people played
In cabins and at dances, and along
Highways where the vagabonds wander by,
Unchanged since days of early English song.
The English, Celtic minstrelsy can never die
As long as mandolins and fiddles cry
The ancient ballads of true love turned wrong—
Of God—and ghosts—and deaths and birth,
Wherever people and their folklore throng.
Out on the sea (or prairies) where the songs are made
Of people close to water, dust and earth:
Elements that give music its true worth
As folk song singers ply their timeless trade.
Ghosts are such wonderous beings...
Dead people have stories burried with them...
Ghosts roam around trying to find loved ones or a home...
Dead people are gone and cannot say a word...
How I wish thats ghosts and dead people were equal...
Ghosts can be solid...
Dead people are transparent to those who don`t care...
Music could have brought them together...
But what kind of music would they both have liked anyway...?