SOFTLY, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
1918
Old friend, patient of error as of accuracy,
Ready to think the fingerings of thought,
You but a scant year older than I am
With my expectant mother expecting maybe
An infant prodigy among her stars
But getting only little me instead–
To see you standing there for six decades
Containing chopsticks, Für Elise, and
The Art of Fugue in your burnished rosewood box,
As well as all those years of silence and
The stumbling beginnings the children made,
Who would believe the twenty tons of stress
Your gilded frame's kept stretched out all this while?
The piano tuner spoke to me, that tenderest
attender to each note
who looking over sharp and flat
hears and glimpses something more remote.
And his ears make no mistake
nor do his hands that in each chord awake
those sounds delighted to keep house together.
Disinterest is my interest:
I don't confuse music and instrument, mere
piano tuner that I am,
calligrapher of that superhuman speech
which lifts me as a guest to its high sphere.
Oh! what new Physics waits up there to teach
other matters to another ear...
(translated from Portugese by James Merrill)
Story & Clark 5' 3" grand #120923, 1927 $900.00 in the window. We deliver!
Daily practice at least an hour. Scales, theory book, lessons.
Mistakes, start over, too fast, wrong note, where is my pencil?
Recital next week, am I ready? Getting better now.
Years pass, seasonal tunings, pins hold tight.
Sounds good now, keep practicing.
Johnny wants to quit, Mom says no. Someday you will thank me, you'll see.
Give me an hour or no radio show!
Johnny goes to war over there.
Piano is silent, waits for victory.
Home coming, family, a new generation. Mom, can we have the piano?
Rock and Roll, I Love Lucy, Good Golly Miss Molly!
All tuned up, cleaning, regulation. Here's the bill Ma'am. Remember, twice a year!
Time for your lesson, this is middle C. Tap your foot slowly.
An hour a day! Good job! Sit up straight!
Back when I was your age...
Look, all grown up! Piano is older. Suzy goes to the prom.
No time for lessons, college you know.
Bob Dylan, protest, Give Peace a Chance, we have lift off. My Fellow Americans!
Strings silent again, pitch goes flat, dust on the soundboard.
Disco, Star Wars, time to clean house. Hey, I'll give you $500 for it. Are you kidding?
Call the tuner, it's only a couple of bad notes. This bench seems wobbly.
Hammer shaping, regulation, these pins are a little loose. What does that mean?
I think I paid too much. It looks bad, maybe I'll paint it myself. Good lord!
Time to practice, your lesson is next week! Awww Mom... Don't argue!
I'll call the tuner. What do you mean it needs a "pitch raise?" I had it tuned only four years ago!
Mrs. Jones, might I suggest a better instrument? See the cracks? Hear the buzz?
If he learns to play this one I'll buy him a better one!
Goo Goo Dolls, Microsoft, READ MY LIPS!
Okay, I'll get rid of it. He prefers football.
FOR SALE - BEST OFFER
What a deal. Honey, look what I bought! Happy Birthday! What?
Sorry Mr. Miller, the pins are loose. The strings are rusted and the board is cracked.
The bridges are splitting, the hammers are worn, the legs are loose and the bushings are gone.
The wippens are shot, the action is bad, the dampers need replacement.
CONGRATULATIONS MR. & MRS. MILLER! You'll love your new piano. We'll haul off the old one for free.
"I'll take one last look" says RPT. Nope, I think she's a goner.
Sad and silent, the keys softly weep.
Eighty years of history, time to sleep.
Taking up space, no hope, the patent is terminal.
PARTY! - Where's my sledge?
How about "Monster Truck Night"?
Maybe a nice piano fire, we'll get a keg.
Where is my video camera? I'm thinking You Tube!
Twas the noon hour and time I must toon. Mrs. Jones was waiting and wanting it soon.
Back and forth, up and down, where's the address, I keep driving 'round!
The time is ticking, the clock ticks its tock, I must try to hurry around the next block!
At last I saw what I came to see, a mail box with numbers, one two and three.
As I knocked on the door catching my breath, a woof bow wow from the right, then the left!
I hope he is friendly, the fur I will see. I do like to happy and bouncy puppy!
The door swang its swing and there dressed in black, the dear Mrs. Jones whom I had called back.
Her slippers were worn, her hair was a mess, but I hadn't the time to care how she dressed.
Where's the piano, the tinkler box? She pointed behind her, the box with a vox.
Right away I could tell there was trouble. Not just a bit but a double double trouble!
For there it was right there at hand, a piano called "Grand" but it actually stands!
A spinet in fact, not a thing one could brag. It was old, it was dirty, it was everything sad.
I opened my case with the tools of my trade. What I opened next just made me pray.
It was flat as flat can be as it sat, it had spills inside and fur from the cat.
There were stains on the keys and parts that were broke, and a smell that smelled like cigarette smoke.
As I looked at the works that failed to do so, I noticed a mouse that died long ago. The felt was all eaten, just wouldn't you know!
I took out my vacuum and vacuumed the mess, the droppings it left and the unwanted guest.
When at last the cleaning was done I moved on to the next bit of fun.
With lever in hand and placed on a pin, I turned on my tooner so I could begin.
With a flick of the wrist the pitch then did twitch, upward and onward without a glitch.
But then what I heard from a string that was wound, a "pop" from inside, just a horrible sound!
All at once I knew what had happened, a string had unstrung, and a damp would not dampen!
I cursed the piano, this pile of rust! This thing will not play, it's not worth the fuss.
Holding my tongue I moved on to the next, and the next and the next and the next and the next.
At last I was done but the job was not over. I must fix the string, and parts broken moreover!
I undid the levers, the things that all move, I took them apart and then used my glue.
Over an hour I tinkered away, at least the parts would then partly play.
I closed up my case and wrote out a bill. The piano was awful but junior was thrilled.
Not a minute to waste, I checked out her check. All was in order and I hastened my step.
To my ride I then flew fast out the door. This is just the beginning, I still have two more!
I started the motor and motored away, wishing that this was the end of my day.
I looked at my watch, I was late once again! Where is my map, where is my pen?
I rushed down the road, I must try to leave sooner, but that's how it is in the life of a tooner.
A C, and Eb, and a G go into a bar. The bartender says, "Sorry, but we don't serve minors." So the Eb leaves and the C and the G have an open fifth between them. After a few drinks, the fifth is diminished and the G is out flat. An F comes in and tries to augment the situation, but is not sharp enough.
A D comes into the bar and heads for the bathroom, saying, "Excuse me. I'll just be a second." Then an A comes into the bar, but the bartender is not convinced that this relative of C is not a minor. Then the bartender notices a Bb hiding at the end of the bar and exclaims, "Get out now. You're the seventh minor I've found in this bar tonight."
The Eb, not easily deflated, comes back to the bar the next night in a 3 piece suit with nicely shined shoes. The bartender (who used to have a nice corporate job) says, "You're looking sharp tonight – come on in. This could be a major development." This proves to be the case, as the Eb takes off his suit, and everything else, and is au natural.
Eventually the C sobers up and realizes in horror that he's under a rest. The C is brought to trial, found guilty of contributing to the diminution of a minor, and is sentenced to 10 years of DS without Coda at an upscale correctional facility. On appeal, however, the C is found innocent of any wrongdoing, even accidental, and that all contrary motions are bassless.
If you would like to suggest other poetry for inclusion on this page, please feel free to contact me.
