In the morning
before the day gets too distracting
your piano’s at its very best.
Say Hello! to it with a scale or two.
Nothing quite like the harmonic minor
(in contrary motion – 3 octaves please)
to get its hammers hammering,
the pedals pedalling, and those
black and white keys
to skip under your fingers.
Bach today or shall it be Brahms?
Gershwin maybe, or just a little Grieg?
No matter what, they’re all your friends.
Nice people composers, no trouble to anyone.
All they do all day is sit in their studios
and dream about music.
Sometimes they write it down,
carefully,
measuring every note and rhythm
for your piano to play
before the day gets too distracting.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 2:07 AM UTC
In the morning
before the day gets too distracting
your piano’s at its very best.
Say Hello! to it with a scale or two.
Nothing quite like the harmonic minor
(in contrary motion – 3 octaves please)
to get its hammers hammering,
the pedals pedalling, and those
black and white keys
to skip under your fingers.
Bach today or shall it be Brahms?
Gershwin maybe, or just a little Grieg?
No matter what, they’re all your friends.
Nice people composers, no trouble to anyone.
All they do all day is sit in their studios
and dream about music.
Sometimes they write it down,
carefully,
measuring every note and rhythm
for your piano to play
before the day gets too distracting.
This poem comes from Twelve, a garland of poems for a twelve-year old's birthday.
