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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=486100" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>At The Piano</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wanting to cleave clearly in the mind the wooden chopping boards of the house into piano keys, <br>and the long tables of the dining room into some imagined concert: <br> Do you hear it? <br>Yes? <br> Do you not since then not realize this grand scale? <br>The poor boy is playing a sonata in his head, yes? <br>Yes.<br> Now. (Pushed into agreement as if pushed by birth into an empty room without choice and flowers for wallpaper and a mirror kept blind dark in a drawer) <br>There was a piano, once, in my head. <br>And a stage. <br>And the world surprised by what had been found.<br> Difficult piece: the left hand flying over the right and the air-pedal stepped through and clean to sustain. <br>And all the world standing behind kitchen counters and the dinner plates waiting for the imagined overture to complete its applause: <br> If only there was no need to explain.<br> If only the real thing was as clear and as audible as once the beautiful music.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* Brown beaver in a stream and the grass green<br>Small girl on a swing and a bird wing <br>And because he thinks it’s meant to be spring, <br>he colors the clear edges <br>of all living things in his piano book- <br>Where the paw touches sharp the blades <br>of the green patch <br>and the bare arm of the blonde girl arcs <br>her slender reach to the sun.<br> And old Brahms who lifts his hand in a wave, <br>even if this is meant to be a slow waltz he’s playing, <br>and a packed piano concert hall he’s set in where a bright blue blazer’s not the right suit for this true master to wear. <br>This genuine thing: <br>Every day before the sun rose, <br>I dreamt the world already in color. <br>Ivy on the old wall greener by far <br>than any I had seen the lush trees<br> bending some friends hiding behind jars, <br>sliding doors snuck into the empty cabinets of the garage wanting to be found and: everyone loved.<br> Wanting to tell the truth, to play it. <br>Song remembered from somewhere else <br>and someone else’s mistake: <br>the bored boy on the waiting couch <br>knows the girl now playing the piano has no applause in sight. The day could be awash with light! <br>what colors blind him with the waiting bird on the wing wrap his hands with a song small girl’s swing fill his eyes while he’s playing a fast loud trick of a trill in his head</div><div style="margin:10px 0">in what was said to be “with feeling” terrible terrible thing </div><div style="margin:10px 0">* All encompassing terror of the grand design<br> I wanted the great concertos, <br>the Bach arias.<br> I wanted: Praise be to God who fashions with his own hands the universe and all of creation out of a deep love for everything without choice.<br> Without being dramatic.<br> I wanted the long pause.<br> I wanted the audience stunned to tears because: <br> this we have not heard before in the streets this song this beautifully done.<br> It moves. <br>It brings us to the edge of our sight.<br> I am not the light. <br>I was not even part of its terms of recovery or perfection.<br> Joy without end without just reward. <br>Who has not, faced with a sin, said: <br>I want to be good? <br>For he hears even our thoughts. <br>I wanted that silence. <br>I wanted the huge applause after the silence.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">*by L.L.Ypil</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ric+S.+Bastasa">Ric S. Bastasa</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=486100" data-title="At The Piano de Ric S. Bastasa" data-description="Wanting to cleave clearly in the mind the wooden chopping boards of the house into piano keys, 
and the long tables of the dining room into some imagined concert: 
 Do you hear it? 
Yes? 
 Do you not since then not realize this grand scale? 
The p..."></div>
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