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Angela Liyanto Dec 2018
Come, come, music,
While I kiss your melody
Not even I, can measure
how much love you hold

Hush, listen - the soft tiptoes
So gently, tenderly - sweet!
Your tune is so light
Pure bubbles meet

Schubert’s humming butterfly
Almost forgets the May bliss
She placed Music on a flower
Till her ripples lay in care

Come, come, sweet music
The moon may wink at you
And charm may sleep
Now those notes, she will bloom

Hush, lift the sleepy light
Well done Debussy – O dear
Roses shall dream of pulp’d verse
And music, she well knows what she hears.
Inspired by Keats, Schubert's Impromptu No.3 & Debussy
Terry Collett Sep 2018
Jeanette flexed her fingers,
aware her mother
was sitting on the sofa,
her critical eyes and ears alert,
aware Benedict was also there,
beside her mother,
a guest, reluctantly
of her mother.

Play the Schubert
you have been practising,
her mother said.

Jeanette stretched her fingers,
feeling her mother's eyes
were on her, her ears alert
for notes missed,
too fast or slow.

She sat comfortably,
placed her fingers
over the keyboard,
brought her mind to bare
on the Schubert piece.

Benedict sat and gazed
at Jeanette's waist,
the structure
of her slim back,
how her dark hair flowed
over her shoulders.

He didn't know
Schubert from Mozart
or if it was fast or slow.

Jeanette began.

Her fingers moved
as the brain dictated.

Her ears acute
for tone and timbre.

She wondered if Benedict
was gazing at her.

She imagined his breath
on her neck as he had
that time she played him
the Beethoven piece
in the empty classroom,
his hands around her waist,
and still she kept
the piece going.

Slower here,
her mother said,
the tone's slightly off.

Benedict recalled the kiss
on her neck in class that time.

Lips on her soft skin,
but still she played
with eyes closed
as if she prayed.
A girl plays piano for her mother and boyfriend 1962
Terry Collett Jul 2018
Mother listens
while I play Schubert
on the piano,
said Yochana,
my fingers travel
the keyboard
from memory.

Not so fast, she says,
it slows at this passage.

I slow down,
and think of Benedict,
that time he kissed me
on the cheek
on the playing field,
and the time
he watched me play
the piano in the classroom,
his breath on my neck,
his hands on my waist.

Softer here,
my mother says;
I press the keys softer;
I sense her eyes on me
as she sits
in the armchair
as I play.

And the weekend
he stayed here
in our guestroom,
and I crept along
to the room
and climbed
into the bed with him.

My mother
never knew
nor suspected.

I come to the end
and lift my hands away
and cease to play.
A girl thinks if a boy while playing the piano 1962

— The End —