"steinway" poems
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
43.4k
Brushwork
If I were a jazz pianist I would pay
my dues in one lump sum on a tip
from some country singer on his way
down who gives me the shirt off his back
a Nudie with piping and plenty
of rhinestones that catch the stage
lights just so and sweep in reflection
across the polished planes of my 1890
rosewood Steinway Grand Modal C
a beaut with a pedigree, one I won’t fail
to mention from the stage in the second set
during the pause between How High The Moon
and I Love The Life I Live from behind
a bobbing cigarette, sharing the remarkable
fact that this is the very same piano
Mose Allison played in a two night stand
at the Blue Note in 1962. Later I’ll work Jimmy
the trumpet player’s name into a tune and trade
winks with the guy on upright bass
the drummer slack jawed oblivious, lost
to us all in some very tasty brushwork.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
Night decks out in saffron gown,
Sparkling stones on evening neck.
Couched Venus out of her lunar lair,
Panting for Apollo's fresh dewy peck.
Settling upon her grand fluffy down,
He turns to strings her goodly hair--
Arousing apace all the sleeping stars
By his tunes that rival the Steinway's.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
She surrenders her joys
A-line highway what ploys
Per- day 2 B or not to Be
B for breakaway
Windy- seaway everyday
endless living
Stay to the right tossing skirt
Gossip throwing unwanted dirt
Smoky bear mountain no harm
Losing one valuable gift charm
His name in honor
feeling complete
Highway for justice and absolute
The right way
Aroma apple pie putting on
Your husbands
Graphic artist highway- tie
How many people on the highway
Never to confess and lie
Highway doesn't have any privacy
True saint of shrubbery mountain tops
curved figure highways
Reckless cliffs skirt ruffles love
feeling rammed
Turn of the century traffic jammed
Your skirt flew up like wild goose chase
You rather of went Big- City marathon
bike race
By- way time -may be- silent have
nothing to say?
Performance piano Steinway
Skirt highway waving flag winning everyday*
Your skirt drenched rooftop concerts
Nest of Blue Jays no highway
Serenity sky draw the deviant
But words can heal even on a highway
My lips are sealed?
Jul 23, 2023
Jul 23, 2023 at 2:05 PM UTC
When daybreak gilds the sky with rose
She wakens, her glad heart afire
Yearning in poems dreams to disclose.
Sighing she lays such dreams away
To give housecats their morning food,
Hoping to write another day.
And though the morning brief may be,
She helps her children with homeschool
Bridging lives for eternity.
Three miles trudging to stay all noon
Helping a crippled neighbor friend,
Then sighs to see the day die soon.
Homeward she steals 'neath setting rays.
On battered Steinway plays a hymn
Blending with softly gloaming dim.
She feeds the frightened strays so thin
Shiv'ring in blustering wind and cold,
Doleful as night comes howling in.
The clock strikes two, she falls asleep
Too weary to pen dying dreams,
Trusts someday glad harvest to reap.
~Hilda~
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC
Mr. Ivories
entertains with elan,
daily during cocktails on the mezzanine level.
Jolene always orders a Black Russian,
mine is a Dewar's and water.
We drop a fiver in his basket on the Steinway,
along with a request for "Ebb Tide",
Jolene's personal favorite.
He conjures an image of Fred Astaire at keyboard,
his tails flipped elegantly over the piano bench,
like long black raven's plumes.
Jolene points out two announcers from CNN,
seated opposite. Makes us feel
important by mere association.
Our waitress asks, would we like another round
before the hour's end, as we speculate
about Mr. Ivories' musical propensity.
Time escapes in moonlit harmonic vapors,
leaves us already longing our next soiree.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
I'm going to wake up
I'm going to refuse to drink bad coffee
I'm going to read until my eyes feel glued shut
I'm going to tell you "I Love You" the next time I see you
I'm going to listen to Joni Mitchell because I am the "Trouble Child" and her voice is as close to perfection as anything can ever be
I'm going to type until I have nothing left to say
I'm going to watch "Freaks and Geeks" because it feels good to be a part of something
I'm going to get a tattoo of a music note because it's the only thing that's always been there for me
I'm going to take long baths
I'm going to be relentless because I need certain things
I'm going to go to Spain and eat paella
I'm going to buy a Steinway and Sons piano even if I can't afford it
I'm going to fall in love again if we don't work out
I'm going to tear up get well cards and crush medicine bottles in my hand
I'm going to win until my room is light at night because my trophies shine
I'm going to go to Haiti and build homes
I'm going to speak in front of people suffering from depression and anxiety and tell them that it's difficult but that it's okay to talk about
I'm going to save a life even if it's a frog's
I'm going to shake the president's hand
I'm going to follow the wind and not a predetermined trajectory
I'm going to study because I want to and not because I want an 'A'
I'm going to sing even though I'm tone deaf
I'm going to tell my parents that they couldn't have helped me
I'm going to take pictures even it makes no sense
I'm going to tell everyone that they should never apologize for their art
I'm going to smile because I'm genuinely happy and not because I'm expected to
I'm going to California because I want to and Robert Plant agrees
I'm going to walk on glass
I'm going to illegally download old music
I'm going to get a PhD in folklore because folklore is amazing
I'm going to say **** when I want to
I'm going to eat grapefruit until I break out in hives
I'm going to embrace you even though you hate nonsexual affection
I'm going to be content one day
I'm going to sail the coast of Maine
I'm going to make enough money to leave this town
I'm going to do everything I said "I'm going" to do
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
I daydream of dreaming
a dream:
comfortable and surreal.
In it, an antique shop full of character
and the scent of mothballs and dust.
A haphazard maze of dark lit corners
pulls me to its depths,
where nestled in the back,
is a perfectly imperfect piano.
Ironic how the blatantly splintered key
is the most out of tune, no?
In this dream within a daydream,
I sit on a squeaking stool,
foot on a loose damper,
and play all that I know.
In this dream to be,
I know not,
or recognize what I play,
but know it's home
and find peace in knowing.
The name Chopin
would be the faintest
of underlying memories,
but the first upon waking.
All we are is what we are not,
and were I dreaming this dream,
that notion would live in my being;
in the pockets of my marrow
and in the pit of my throat.
No Steinway could produce
such a twang so unimaginably beautiful.
Only the physically appealing use the word ugly,
and only the true understand the word beauty.
In my dream to be,
I watch myself,
but feel the keys
as they disintegrate
after violently being yanked from slumber.
Would I dream,
I would gasp and reach in wake,
grasping nothing,
and yearn again
to live without
vivid self awareness.
Yet when conscious,
I seek lucidity,
despite the comfort
found in effortlessness.
So snap me out of it.
Slap the porcelain saucer
that is my cheek,
for I am no Poe,
and this no "dream within a dream"
but a waltz
with the idea of serendipity.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
Picture me suckling on her elbows, lips enveloping that round lump, teeth scraping up past the skins’ v-fold, you might even want to dress that elbow in dotted pale cerise cotton ******* picture me lapping at her neck, tongue thwapping, spit running down to the corners of the mouth, bright nose pressed firm into the temple, my salacious grin in the wee pit of her eyes,
Yes I am there.
Picture me pawing, growling, climbing up her thin skinny young legs, my junk clambering its way into her grove garden cemetery of Hearse boxes and heart suitcases, where by death nothing grows anymore. Picture heavy, weighty, fleshy flesh tearing to shreds those photos you’ve been keeping of changing diapers in the back of your mind, those pictures on the top of your Steinway, picture me in your picture frames. Picture me I am the perfect imbecilic interstices to incise your pristine sweethearts’ heart, picture me, for I am the beast trammeling your restful sleep. Picture me while I take what I please, picture me as I take and I cleave, fueled by rancor and grief, I am your concerted antithesis of pleas and no’s and pleadings. I am but her best friend till the end. Picture me, woof woof. Picture me.
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 3:27 AM UTC
The Tuner's Turn
he's tuned them all it seems
most of the 12,5oo different brands
he has tuned them even in his dreams
in damp basements and smoky band stands
Ballwin, Steinway, Schimmel and Mason
the very best there is to offer
Irving Strausser is the one to hasten
he is the master you want to proffer
a fine tinkler of the ivory in his own right
but never really ever given the chance
he practiced until dawn's early light
the best was a Holiday Inn wedding dance
he was in attendance that special night
at the Radio City Music Hall
he came to see the maestro's delight
but alas had tripped and fallen against the wall
the audience was antsy whistling and clapping hands
the producers were anxious not knowing where
they spotted Irving in the aisle hearing the demands
they begged him play they were in despair
he shook his head saying no certainly not me
I am just a tuner an amateur at best
they begged and pleaded for his sympathy
and well you can guess the rest
he finally took the stage the crowd settled in
he graciously bowed his head and explained the situation
after a few nervous moments he finally did begin
he played oh did he play to a standing ovation
his fingers flew over the keys like magic
this was the tuner's turn to take his place
some of the audience may forget his name
but they will always remember his face
Gomer LePoet...
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 7:46 AM UTC
(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.
.
.
Songs 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
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 9:30 PM UTC
black cat
with your
neon yellow eyes
tippy toed across
the sea of
black and white
ivory keys
in such a playful mood
while the Steinway Piano
giggled out loud
with a choppy staccato
melody tune
on that lovely
Sunday afternoon
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 9:26 PM UTC
like a brick hurdling through a wall of fog
i will never forget that phone call
it took less than a nanosecond to react
a steinway deluged with my tears
the beginning of a ride i would have put off forever.
like lightning radiating through a mundane darkness
i will never forget that spark
it took less than a nanosecond to react
a stodart consumed with my focus
a beautiful ride i thought i'd lost forever.
Forever
fleeting?
I lost you here.
But here you reappeared
Stronger from absence
Compassion without sense
Somehow this was the best way to break the waiting
Two old men
with the deepest understanding of me
Never to meet
Maybe better in dreams
But in the end, a more complete me
Always trusting feelings instead of how it seems
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 1:05 AM UTC
Standing at a door
about to open,
......the apartment
abandon years ago,
now open to a breeze
wondering...where you are.
Finger on keys,
some lettered... some black and white.
A corner wraps round Steinway's
mahogany smile as the afternoon
reflected harmony.
Across the room a computer stood
old but humming when turned on
.......smooth sailing into 99.
The chair near the window, keys hung
on the wall one skeleton one modern
looking lost....so what...!
you hear the white noise sing...
fingers on keys.
Ajerry
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
You're blocked;
you're bugged;
your eyes stay screaming
but I can't hear a thing.
Wash through me like knees through mud
not yet caked over by the heat of the
sun; like you're looking for something
you dropped and it may soon be entombed.
Look at me as you would a tree
caked in mud.
Name me by my leaves, or
my sinewy limbs.
You're soft;
you're coarse;
the lines that puzzle your face
make frowning silly, and small.
Name me Steinway like the
piano. Or Pecan, like the
tree.
Find me forward, trudging through mud.
I can see solid ground but my branches
can't reach to touch the grass or its flowers
or to smell the rotten-ripe crushed leaves of
the pecan trees.
Stick me where I'm stuck,
save the mud. Give my leaves
some snow, some lightness,
cold. Give me color. Paint me
in storm clouds.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 11:43 PM UTC
Dancing with the keys of a Steinway
On the wings of the strings
My biggest regret in all of my life
Is that I didn’t try enough things
I never wept at the sight of the moon
And never sat under the stars
I never traveled far enough
And never earned any scars
The keys play soporific songs
And the memories fade away
My dreams are too big to keep
In the keys of a grand Steinway
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
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.
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 6:53 AM UTC
she played me one of her songs
on a Steinway grand piano.
I thought it sounded like change falling into a Styrofoam cup
held in the hand of a hobo
sitting by a coffee stand.
Dec 20, 2019
Dec 20, 2019 at 9:42 PM UTC
Not all who smile are happy
Like the setting sun
Radiant as it dips to soft slumber
May shine brighter than any fluorescent star
Yet its warmth wanes and becomes but a floating orb
A coffin chiseled to perfection
A tombstone polished and secure
Yet inside a rotting face
Inside a forgotten man
Like a piano whose lost its voice
Each key, an unworldly pitch
A Steinway without a perfect note
Collecting dust in the corner room.
A singer without a song
A french model without a face
A man with a contagious smile
In the end it does not appear so...
Not all who smile are content
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
Quick one two three
And then home
One two three stops
There will be one more
And then another
And then I'm home
And that's where the market is
And bed is
And ***
That's where I drink beer in my easy chair
That's where it is
One, two three
And then I'm home
And the rotation of the wheels
Go tut tut tut
Like a Google search
Like information
Like flying keys.
One two three
Then I'm home again
Just like that
You'll see
It's 36th then Steinway then 46th
It goes up and up
But I get off
When it's my turn to
And where my home is
That's where I go to
One two three
Then it's my home, you see
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC