Unheard Elegy of a Widow Pianist
In a quadrille of his flimsy fingers
He lambently imposed tranquility
In between the brunt of his calloused soldiers
That the phalanges strangulated in a knot
And trudged and snapped and broke
With the heart of the widow pianist
Whistling his vapid tune from weaker towers
With the streets teeming of faceless strangers
He played the elude of his phantasmagoria
And groveled with a bleeding sonata
With shambling notes of empty words
That singed brusquely in a queue
Among their empty swollen ears
The schmaltz plea died with the violins
He sedated himself with the picture
Of familiar peoples crammed in a rotogravure
And the melancholy disembogued of verve
When the pictures pranced with deluded scherzos
And the listening thawed unto their toes
As he gnawed upon a drunken smile
The pianist's elegy strode a thousand mile
The widow pianist crooned to bargain
For an audience to the unfurling morsels
Of his slivered mind and its elegy
And ferry the silver euphonic melody
In a place divorced of harsh veracity,
Where triviality would be unwelcomed,
And benediction is in a saccharine orchestra.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Widow Pianist
Two hours before existence
He struck mindlessly
Lashing out, trying blindly
With ears bolted
From the contoured melody
And lips busy
In a genocide
A banshee fritters away
With the pressing of
His stale scrawny fingers
In a somnolent levity
Teeming with apprehension
And siphoned of tranquility
I am not a widow pianist.
How can I endure this?
poem by Norman Santos
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I was much more interested in the orchestra than the piano, but I did become fairly proficient as a pianist and my teachers felt I had talent and wanted me to become a good concert pianist and earn my living that way.
quote by Alan Hovhaness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ivory Keys
A pianist sat on his stool
The throng had hushed away
And when the violin had strummed
His fingers hovered in the air
And then began to play
A thousand pairs of eyelids
Bowed and fell into a trance
And ivory still echoing
The audience dozed gracefully
As thoughts broke into dance
The ecstasy on faces grew
To vivid, joyous smiles
And as the keys sped quicker now
The pianist grew fiercer
As he swiftly hit white tiles
The waterfall, as did his pace,
Transitioned to a brook
And as his climax had relaxed
So did his face become less tense
And fashioned a soft look
The artist painted final notes
To vibrate in the hall
And as he hit the final key
The faithful listeners awoke
And sadly that was all
There was not any mad applause
Nor cheerfulness, nor joy
And there was silence in the room
For there was no one to rejoice
Or shout happily, 'Oh Boy! '
And then somewhere a sob broke out
A cry it then became
And in the throng the rest had joined
Tearing in blissful unison
As all tears chimed the same
They all reflected happiness, not pain
As it so seemed
And all emotions grew to bliss
As the host's face became less grim
His lips now coyly beamed
The audience was much in awe
Of beauty that he made
On eighty-eight of blacks and whites
A melody of pure delight
Of wonder that he played
poem by Sasha Ioffine
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Edge to Edge (Post post modern poetry)
When I slept in the afternoon after going through the ordeal of riding a cab in the heat only my Donna Karan glasses less by one degree in darkness and covering all my eyes protected me from fainting I wore my shirt which was stinking from sweat when I threw myself on the bed escaping the eyes of the old widow in the other room the fan went off I concentrated to sleep even without and I did after intense fantasies remembering the movie “The Pianist” I had watched the last night and the inspired soldier who let the soul of the pianist survive and himself landed in the war prison camp because he wanted to contact that other foolish violinist who instead spat on him being German and he could not be saved by the pianist as the pianist did not know his name because when the German soldier was getting inspired by the music in ruins he forgot telling him his name we are all victims of romance the German soldier could have made a bargain the pianist was too hungry to know about him and terrified for what he had seen when I woke up I got hold of my guitar similarly inspired as the German soldier was I entered into a black shirt on whose collar is written ‘edge to edge’ with an emblem of an animal having one long horn I went to drink coffee before I took a bath when I picked my phone to make a call one dear number of mine with me since a decade I found that it was stolen by someone my dreams shattered suddenly in the wake of reality of the number from the pianist now I was in deep trouble I came out my appetite was no more I entered a bakery to buy myself a burger that was wrapped in polythene there was no place to sit the burger was put in oven some of the polythene melted into the sauce my fingers burned to open the ketchup sachet I came into the dark corner a dog was sleeping I preferred sharing my burger with a cat on small concrete steps the cat could not take diet coke pieces of chicken slipped down and she was eating I rubbed my hands on my shorts and thanked the cat for she was my friend on dinner
8/8/2009
PS: These are real events narration in what I call 'post post modern poetry' writing straight what you feel without giving it a form or even punctuation
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Obsession
Obsession
The pianist Albert has got a job in Loulé last time
I saw him in Faro and fell over a pollard, he said
he was not my father. When he spotted me he ran
into a café, they let him run through the kitchen
into the back, a dead end; I waited for him there.
“If you don´t stop following me I will have to call
the police, I´M NOT YOUR FATHER.” To mollify
him I said: “ I know you are not, but I do admire
your piano playing. ”This pleased him and we had
a drink and he told me he came from Yugoslavia,
had wanted to be a concert pianist, but there was
no money, so he ended up as a café pianist… just
as my father I thought but said nothing… then he
had to leave for work, saw him walk out of my life
just as my father did, there was nothing I could do
to stop this man who refused to be my dad.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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I was for a minor amount of time but I was probably a better pianist at 15 than I am now.
quote by Josh Silver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I don't think I could have ever had a career as a pianist because I never ever wanted to play the notes the way they were written, I was too sloppy to learn them quite right.
quote by Jerry Hunt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Opus
There was a widow pianist
Who plays most pristinely
That would drag your feet
Into an emollient waltz
But you would never hear
The banshee caterwauling;
His opus.
There was a limped painter
Who paints in fluid levity
That extends such gaiety
To purge the ashen scene
But you would never see
The withering canvass;
His opus.
There was a smug architect
Who design most intricately
That your eyes and mouth gape
Musing in an ornate beauty
But you would never find
The crying skyscraper;
His opus.
There was a coy poet
Who wrote in enigmatic strokes
That would pull a knot in your head
And sometimes in your chest
But you can never read
The written yearning;
His opus.
poem by Norman Santos
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Élégie pour les papillons
(dedicated to Mr. Lang Lang, a gifted pianist)
dark
gloomy
an elegy
an adagio
dreary battlefield
muffled bells
scream
tears
a thundering
interrupted
calmed
lonely
up and fall of
human spirits
battle trumpets
the sudden call
deep, somber
funeral march
modulates into
stunning melody
dismal sense of hope
heroic march
triumphant
valiant
a vigorous cascades
powerful, emphatic
a sudden drop
into quiet
no more lip service
no more arrogant
no more promise
no more speech
(inspired by Max Ernst's The Eye of Silence)
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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Timeline Of Cosmological Theories Or Sloan Great Wall
On the top of a hill
Tornado of petals
Your wrist
Your elbow
Your ankle
Your distal phalanges
Travelplan
Brooklyn Heights
On a bottom of strings
A harp
Your breath
In the back seat
By the light of the moon
Like a mirror of water
Your wisdom teeth
In a blue beach towel
Tied hands of pianist
poem by Nicolas Grenier
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Empty
. .Who shall measure the heat and
violence of the poet's heart when caught
and tangled in a woman's body?
-Virginia Woolf
Every month,
the reminder of emptiness
so that you are tuned
to your bodyharp,
strung out on the harpsichord
of all your nerves
& hammered bloody blue
as the crushed fingers
of the woman pianist
beaten by her jealous lover.
Who was she?
Someone I invented
for this poem,
someone I imagined. . .
Never mind,
she is me, you-
tied to that bodybeat,
fainting on the rack of blood,
moving to the metronome-
empty, empty, empty.
No use.
The blood is thicker
than the roots of trees,
more persistent than my poetry,
more baroque than her bruised music.
It gilds the sky above the Virgin's head.
It turns the lilies white.
Try to run:
the blood still follows you.
Swear off children,
seek a quiet room
to practice your preludes & fugues.
Under the piano,
the blood accumulates;
eventually it floats you both away.
Give in.
Babies cry & music is your life.
Darling, you were born to bleed
or rock.
& the heart breaks
either way.
poem by Erica Jong
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Failed Musician
Failed Musician?
My uncle died, he was on holiday in Piraeus when a pig fell off
a balcony, he left a piano and since his wife didn’t want it in her
house, mother took it, only because it would lend an impression
of high culture, and no one else in our neighbourhood had one.
I played on it day and night, picked up tunes on radio and played
them on the piano; people where impressed, mother too, but she
needed her rest worked long hours at a canning factory; one day,
coming home from school, a big empty space, I cried mother gave
me Danish pastry, they were a day old but still tasty. I’m glad she
sold the piano, though I might have ended up a restaurant pianist
driving from town to town playing evergreens as background music
for bored diners
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The first jazz pianist I heard was Thelonious Monk. My father was listening to an album of his called 'Monk's Dream' almost every day from the time I was born.
quote by Benny Green
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Along The Busy Streets Of The 6th Avenue
Along the busy streets of the 6th avenue, the gardens are empty of tulips and violets
Lamp posts flicker and phone booths are filled with faceless strangers
Children are running, one after the other, jumping, skipping, smiling as they go
In the distance the cars move slowly, their honks resemble an elegy I wrote for you
I tried to look for you but all I saw were stop lights, smokey air, noisy mouths, and busy sidewalks
The hands of time are rushing, hastily passing me by
Pushing away the colors and hues and shades of clouds and sky
They all sing the song of my soul's longing for you
They all tell me that I can never again have you...
poem by Franciel John Doe
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I'm not really a pianist.
quote by Harold Budd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Pianist
A young perplexing boy who found comfort in staying out of sight,
Had a behaviour that made him the target of cruelty and smite,
One day by chance he came upon a piano and came alight,
And quite soon gained respect since his music was able to excite,
Yet was not happy for he wanted to gain finesse overnight,
He would practice relentlessly, studying and playing hourly,
With time he gained the mastery, which he had lusted for dearly,
He would sleep his nights restlessly, without fail waking eagerly,
Since he was obsessed about playing his instrument flawlessly,
He came to be annoyed at how his playing was not always tight,
Maintaining the concentration required took all of his might,
He removed all his possessions in and around his line of sight,
Still it was not enough and so he removed everything outright,
Yet was not happy as his playing still had a margin of blight,
He removed light and played blindly, as a result played perfectly,
In time he eventually lost his grip on reality,
Numerous birds curiously came and formed an assembly,
One bird liked the music dearly and called on the king frequently,
The bird sang a melody, which the king found to be a delight,
The king complemented the bird and came to learn of its ghostwrite.
Then requested the pianist to enter into the limelight,
The pianist was promised riches should he accept the invite,
Yet he turned it down as he had developed a distaste for light.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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Song For Heroes
Captain O’Hare was a mariner brave;
He refused to abandon his ship;
A hero, he sleeps in a watery grave—
And his widow is now Mrs. Bipp,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Bipp!
Henri Dupont was a fearless young ace;
Five thousand feet up he was hit;
Each year on his grave pretty flowers we place—
And his widow is now Mrs. Schmitt,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Schmitt!
Corporal Dunn was a volunteer bold;
He plunged in the deadliest fray;
A bayonet thrust laid him out stony cold—
And his widow is now Mrs. Gray,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Gray!
But Peter McGuck was a cowardly sneak,
Like a hound he remained home in fear;
When fishing one day he fell into the creek—
And his widow is now Mrs. Greer,
Haw! Haw! Haw!
Mrs. William O’Houlihan Greer!
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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Suite Characteristique
(dedicated to Mr. Piotr Anderszewski, a gifted pianist)
you travels
around in and out
of my heart and soul
why can't you be believed in?
walls of the truth
can beautify your path
but your desires blind your honest
with or without you, I keep on going, love
you smiles
to forgotten soldiers
where I can put my last hope
when all white doves are destroyed?
(inspired by Gustave Caillebotte's Paris Street, Rainy Day)
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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Then, for a hot three or four weeks I wanted to be a concert pianist.
quote by Frank Langella
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My mother wanted me to be a concert pianist.
quote by Bernie Worrell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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