Long Steinway Poems
Long Steinway Poems. Below are the most popular long Steinway by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Steinway poems by poem length and keyword.
Night of Rhythm
Tone into serene
Music from the ivories
In control and bold
Jazz upbeat
People dancing through the New York City streets
A Harlem past
The swing of dance
Classical meeting sassy
Melody stretching far and wide
All night long
Mello sounds
A tap here and there
Suddenly total body movement and legs to follow
Together running down to the feet
Accompaniment all its own
The ivories making it all possible
Midnight happening at the exact hour
Piano being the tempo
Jazzy and Frenzy
Smooth and secure
Steinway at its best
Energized and organized
Midnight Piano hitting all the right notes.
Mother bartered me to an Englishman.
His tribe made televisions.
In those days
televisions were wooden vehicles
crafted out of electric fans
and the spare parts of flying saucers.
Later he became an overseer
of sparky factory hands.
Once while waiting outside for his shift to end,
I jumped from the cross-strut
of a tall billboard. When he found me,
my leg was broken.
'Look what your son has done now'!
"Superman made me do it."
My exiled Irish mother shrugged.
She had entirely forgotten herself
since her surrender.
I liked the Hospital;
African nurses coddled me with plump pink palms.
It was there that I first learned to play a sick piano;
ears pressed into drumming wood
while the blind piano tuner
(a wandering Jew), tapped its hollow bones.
For days I kept
an infirm Steinway under my pillow -
dreamed of fret-sawing crotchets and quavers.
When I returned home mother had found a priest,
and again her native religion began to spook her,
though she still spoke to me in a language
only Superman could hear.
(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).
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.
Bechstein, Blüthner, Steinway or Fazioli,
even an archaic Pianoforti,
long had he craved to play them all.
He was in love with their shape and sheen,
their sweeping contours, their circuit bodies.
He loves the sensuality of maple and spruce,
those handcrafted mahogany torsos,
the sprung brass of muted pedals,
deep resonations
within a grand iron skeleton
a tri-legged, beast of beauty,
built to create the most delicate of nocturns,
or a thumping Hungarian Rhapsody.
He would run his fingers,
over their curvaceous sable forms
allow fingertips to caress un-played keys,
the almost erotic white and black harmony
beneath a chaste lid.
He imagines playing
for a lady in crinoline perhaps,
and he the intense composer
of unspoken desires.
Sad to say,
his clumsy laptop fingers,
clattered upon that keyboard,
his coda forever silent.
‘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
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.