Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
I was once a classically trained pianist: My nails cut weekly down to the bit and internal tongue *ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-tee-tee ta-ta, tom* tuned to the metronome. Daily hours meant: bent stick straight up scales and etudes then sonatas and scherzos and waltzes and nocturnes and preludes and arias and movements memorized by fingers that knew the way and weight of adjusted arms. What is the value of a wrong note alone or amongst many, of memory incapable and fingers fallible?
0
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
I was once a classically trained pianist
I was once a classically trained pianist: My nails cut weekly down to the bit and internal tongue *ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-tee-tee ta-ta, tom* tuned to the metronome. Daily hours meant: bent stick straight up scales and etudes then sonatas and scherzos and waltzes and nocturnes and preludes and arias and movements memorized by fingers that knew the way and weight of adjusted arms. What is the value of a wrong note alone or amongst many, of memory incapable and fingers fallible?
cecelia-francis
Written by
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem