Long Steinway Poems
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Author's note: This is an epic length poem that will have to be split into parts and will be serialized in successive posts.
Part 2
act three
in the third act delirious
the laws of physics etc.
he coughs his lungs out
in wheezing jets
internal combustion is internal combustion
his bed of wheels begins to roll
first one wheel then the others
cough cough cough
his wheels roll the length of
NEURO WARD 4's corridor
to the NEURO elevator
and its NEURO music
by now familiar to you
as that song in the head
cough cough cough
3 2 1 doors open out
upon the concrete parking lot
out to Lucille the Oldsmobile
they recognize one another
why no one knows
this is an orphan's tale
composed with the licensed use
of Orphan Guild secrets
raised on the back seat
suckled by giant oranges
weaned on foot long hot dogs
at the nation's roadside
Musella my injection!
act four
in the 4th phantom of the opera
the tank hits empty
his lungs flat and black
as a piece of big rig recap
in desperation piles bricks on seat
heaves bricks back onto concrete
salutes au revoir to the mirror's horizon
and rolls onward
propelled by what is equal
what is opposite
according to St. Newton
the law of the motor
what goes in must come out
seriously Lucille rolls
upon the concrete gridway
steering herself autonomously
everything left to chance
we now know any nightmare
propelled by what is equal and opposite
will roll through the divider
and off the bed-road
Musella vacuums up the glass
and sorts out the tubing
our fugitive lays low by his radio
signal up full
awaiting the footsteps
and stethoscope of Tex Amphora
the archaeologist cowboy surgeon
took my case in a bar stool wager
betting on flesh made perfect
the fool the angel
5 minute intermission
they taught me how to act
onstage I mean in stages
strangers said I'd grow out of it
friends said I'm gonna die from it
there comes a time in a youth's youth
when he discovers
that the machinery on the interstate
can play the sound of skidding wheels
on a Steinway
so
a much needed musical interlude then
acto sexto
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
http://tinyurl.com/nhfk6dr
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.site11.com/
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
(this is another throw-back - a piece of writing, from high school, used in my Yale applications)
I pound the pillow, curse the clock and mock injunctions to rest.
The sun finally rises and its rays slantwise fall through the curtains as I dry my hair.
A meal, like a forced dose, we soak ourselves in wasted, nervous time.
Finally! We arrive at the competition...
Tension is here and tireless pressure.
The players waiting stiff as straw, tongues playing over dry lips.
Teachers and coaches unapologetic in their pallor.
Music drifts behind us and occasionally gasps as imperfections play like daring circus tricks.
The sparkling prodigy returns disappointed, grimace of a smile, stricken, he stares away as we search for words, oh! clumsy, unrepairable prince!
Suddenly, its time and I wonder why we are hurrying, feeling weak, momentarily frightened to go there.
On this stage in this great, hushed hall, enormity suddenly dawns with mass enough to crush me.
At last, I sit before this odd Steinway music machine - my dearest mechanical friend.
A tremble resisted - the reward of mortal afternoons - endless practices fruit.
Eyes closed I prepare my best self - pushing all fear, all doubt, to the margins - and begin.
I hope, to recreate, one note at a time, Chopin's ancient impact - with hands flying, like tethered birds, I hammer out his timeless melody explosions, his streams of crazily exact math exam fiery semiquaver motions.. then, almost suddenly, I'm done.
I stand, joyously, nearly crying.. The world hasn't ended.
.
.
A song for this:
12 Etudes, Op. 10: No. 4 in C-Sharp Minor by Vladimir Ashkenazy
Part of Your World by Emile Pandolfi
We gather together by Emile Pandolfi
.
.
I thought I was going to be a concert pianist once - before covid.
Did you know there are piano recital competitions?
I wasn't a prodigy, I practiced endlessly, only to lose, eventually to one of the prodigies.
I competed in 7 'big ones,' two were international, and I came in second every time.
My joke was, "I'm the second-best pianist in any room.
I only switched my goals (to medicine - sort of the family business) when that fell through (Thanks, one more time, covid).
‘Get the motor running head out on the highway looking for adventure’
Well it is only the council road with potholes but Oliver races his pushbike
Walkman headphones sound ‘Born to be wild’ or Attention Deficit Disorder
But there is no doubt in the bikers’ mind that winter is recycling fast time
Orange banana saddle ape hanger handle bars and Che Guevara bandana
Another day for many revolutions as the wheels keep turning in tandem
He abhors bicycle clips as Oliver needs torn jeans to be one of the gang
No leather jacket so the hand me down brown corduroy one takes its place
Pedals turning downhill at full speed hard breaks and sharp swerve to the left
Another 360 degree circle wonderful skid marks adorn his pride and the road
It was easy today because morning dew and pink purple petals greased the path
For once the corroded chain has not come off after that creaking gear change
Countenance smirks on his face because has done it again and he feels so much
More achievement than if he was doing his homework left pathetically languorous
At home where his goody two shoes brother calculates tangents and radius
Oliver is an action boy full of mettle and metal and his scent is lubricant oil
‘Take the world in a love embrace and explode into space’ and dear emotions
Run high almost octane fuelled while his well-behaved sisters play octaves
From Amadeus on Bechstein or Steinway pined to bored ebony and ivory keys
Oliver hammers down wildly as the way forward beckons driven by freedom
He is oblivious to fragrances blossoms and bloom and the sweet scent of nature
Could not care less about chirping birds and the warm temperature resides only
In his teenage blood and guts as he rides through a pile of litter in which rusty
Debris mingles with pneumatic tyres and a very loose spring punctures the air
16th March 2019
Spring Is In the Air contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
- you dirt dog You dirt dog
grimy as they get
Heiny in each hand
one from the ice box
other from the brothel
Slouching slurring
so clear you speak
filtered through the old typewriter
your "Baldwin" or your "Steinway"
Love really is a dog from hell
Play it again "Chopin Bukowski"
Your poetic piano masterpiece!
: a tribute to Charles Bukowski HERE'S a Link to the BUK Sculpture:
and Linda Kings Sculpture of
this great American poet http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.bukowski-gesellschaft.de/pix/art71linda-1.jpg&imgrefurl=http://bukowski.net/forum/index.php%3Fthreads/bukowski-bust.45/&usg=__5cQH_14jh2_Tyw5KpTdQJdvq7x0=&h=540&w=744&sz=76&hl=en&start=32&zoom=1&tbnid=ebDaiH5RBcXZrM:&tbnh=154&tbnw=201&ei=M7m4TeqlHc7b4wb1ttDfDw&prev=/search%3Fq%3Dlinda%2Bking%2Bbukowski%2Bsculpture%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26hs%3Dfwa%26sa%3DX%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26biw%3D1120%26bih%3D518%26tbm%3Disch0%2C6930%2C693&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=820&vpy=215&dur=481&hovh=191&hovw=264&tx=188&ty=92&page=3&ndsp=11&ved=1t:429,r:4,s:32&biw=1120&bih=518
I pound the pillow, curse the clock and mock injunctions to rest.
The sun finally rises and its rays slantwise fall through the curtains as I dry my hair.
A meal, like a forced dose, we soak ourselves in wasted, nervous time.
Finally! We arrive at the competition...
Tension is here and tireless pressure.
The players waiting stiff as straw, tongues playing over dry lips.
Teachers and coaches unapologetic in their pallor.
Music drifts behind us and occasionally gasps as imperfections play like daring circus tricks.
The sparkling prodigy returns disappointed, grimace of a smile, stricken, he stares away as we search for words, oh! clumsy, unrepairable prince!
Suddenly, its time and I wonder why we are hurrying, feeling weak, momentarily frightened to go there.
On this stage in this great, hushed hall, enormity suddenly dawns with mass enough to crush me.
At last I sit before this odd Steinway music machine - my dearest mechanical friend.
A tremble resisted - the reward of mortal afternoons - endless practices fruit.
Eyes closed I prepare my best self - pushing all fear, all doubt, to the margins - and begin.
I hope, to recreate, one note at a time, Chopin's ancient impact - with hands flying, like tethered birds, I hammer out his timeless melody explosions, his streams of crazily exact math exam fiery semiquaver motions.. then, almost suddenly, I'm done.
I stand, joyously, nearly crying.. The world hasn't ended.
Have you heard about my renowned uncle, Gladys
Who by sexual makeup had an Aunt’s status.
Well, he or she, you can use whatever you want;
Like I just said, this uncle is loosely an aunt.
Anyways, she had to remove all her mirrors,
Since she said, each of them made too many errors.
She claimed that they never reflected her splendor;
While we thought, they couldn’t decide on a gender.
In any case, she seemed a hallucination,
But Aunty was more of an amalgamation.
And if you dared to ask most people’s opinion,
They’d say she was pieced from the animal kingdom.
She smiled like a jackal and grinned like a badger,
And her lips resembled those of a fly catcher.
Her frizzy head of hair, was pin-striped like a skunk’s,
And her mammoth nose swung like an elephant’s trunk.
Her eyes were as piercing as that of a boa,
Or any old reptile collected by Noah.
We played with her sideburns that were like Wolverines’,
Although our moms made sure we got extra vaccines
See, Gladys had kindness in a strong manly way,
With her big old bear hug that could crush a Steinway.
We must admit, Gladys had some fine attributes,
That may show up some day in oddball film tributes.
To be shown nationwide for the weird and plucky,
But my cousins and I would still think it’s yucky.
Anyhow, it’s time to stop picking on Gladys,
By switching over to her only son, Alice.
David Fisher, 11/22/14, iambic hexameter,
For Giorgio's contest
Bechstein, Blüthner, Steinway or a Fazioli Pianoforti
long had he craved to play them.
He was in love with grand pianos, their shape and sheen,
their sweeping contours, their circuit bodies.
His hands, so unmusical, his heart a natural composer
of words but not more than two or three notes together.
He admires from afar
the ornate candelabra set upon polished wood,
a wood so dark it shines and reflects.
He imagines the discrete intricacies of maple and spruce
within its handcrafted mahogany torso.
The sprung brass of muted pedals,
A frame of tensile Swedish steel;
its resounding skeleton,
all built to create both delicate nocturns
or the most vigorous of Hungarian rhapsodies.
Ribs, strings, hornbeam hammers,
Lindenwood keys all strung, spun, or carved
all brought together
to construct one perfect medley.
These grand instruments even when silent
enchanted him. He would run his fingers
over their curvaceous ebony forms
allow fingertips to caress the un-played keys,
white on black almost erotic
when a chaste lid is lifted.
He dreams of playing for a lady in crinoline
a music lover, and he the intense composer
of unspoken love and desire.
He dreams knowing that this cannot be
not then nor ever
as his workman's hands crash down once more
upon his hard-worked and clattering
laptop keys.
clara
down at the fourth street pub and grill
most folks sat around the bar
while one played to her hearts content
wishing to someday become a star
clara tinkered on her beat-up steinway
with whiskey glasses neatly stacked
as her fingers found the waiting keys
she poured out her soul where talent lacked
alternating softly between sharps and flats
ebony and ivory and nothing between
tears steadily fell into her latest glass
dreams and visions not as they seemed
stains of soured whiskey touched the rim
where red lipstick dried like her empty kiss
she tickled the keys with a sad love song
but the smooth ivory bars were much too stiff
numb fingers stopped her cold on one song
she knew there was nothing more to say
so clara stood and quietly bowed to none
for to no one in particular she refused to play
clara left dejected and alone that night
whiskey glasses still stacked high
and no one missed her when she was gone
though she had really wanted to say goodbye
now only one respectful gentleman visits her
placing twelve white roses on her grave
as he recalls the girl who played the steinway
and the joyous moments of music she gave
On the curb of the alley she sat
Admiring the old Steinway
Noticing the worn finish and eyes focused on the ivory keys
For years she played in the symphony
Bringing an ethereal quality to each masterpiece
She walked over to the antique Steinway and began to stroke the keys
Crescendos and decrescendos and two part harmony
The passersby were enraptured by her humble qualities
A carpetbagger now with barely enough to eat
Many citizens stumbled upon her private concert as she closed her eyes to play
Rehearsing the most sophisticated sonatas
As though this was a Carnegie Hall day
At the end of her first performance
As the imaginary curtains began to draw
The audience of passersby began to clap their hands
As her heart rate began to fall
Her heart had grown discouraged over the years
As she was replaced by someone younger
She fell into poverty and deep depression and learned the song of hunger
Her day was complete
Her life came full circle
As she played her last concert piece
A band of angels came to collect her soul as her spirit was released
There is a moral to this story of the old woman and her piano…
Live each day of this life as you are strumming the ivories
Of a magnificent concert piano
Gwendolen Rix
10-22-14