Quotes about pianist, page 6
Dark Drowned Faces Already Touched
Still life of the universe apples fallen down
Sky stammers teeth the teeth of the world
Blood inbuilt bites boldly protruding
A madman’s sadness slowly chews the bones
Vulture sorrow falling ashen on his paws
He used to be a pianist with hands stray on keyboards
Length of which limits both the keys and sounds
He used to play the tune on starboards of a journey
Small sinking ships haunt his humming heart
He will be forgiven despair paid pain and sin
In tooth of time given an eternal milk
He will be forgiven desert bites of skin
Enfolded in heaven’s softly touching silk
Dark drowned faces already touched
Still life of the universe apples fallen down
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Danse des Nympheas
(dedicated to Ms. Gitti Pirner, a talented pianist)
J'ai mis du temps à comprendre mes nympheas
water lilies
iris, willows
a little estate
in the country
a water garden
how magical
revelation
model
vision
pond
sensitivity
suggestive
at times fluid
a flow of colors
sometimes sigh
[...] Read more
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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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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To Leave This City
This is the city to walk around in the rain
Staring at the barges in the harbor
And to hum songs through the night.
The city has countless streets
Bustling with people running around...
The waitress who brings me my tea every evening
And whom I like a lot although she's a White Russian
Is in this city.
The old pianist who turns around
To look at me
When he sneaks in pieces by Schumann and Brahms
While playing waltzes and foxtrot
Is also in this city.
The ferry boats that caryy passengers
To the village where I was born are in this city.
So are my memories,
All those I love,
And the graves of my loved ones.
[...] Read more
poem by Orhan Veli Kanik
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Mingus At The Showplace
I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen
and so I swung into action and wrote a poem
and it was miserable, for that was how I thought
poetry worked: you digested experience shat
literature. It was 1960 at The Showplace, long since
defunct, on West 4th st., and I sat at the bar,
casting beer money from a reel of ones,
the kid in the city, big ears like a puppy.
And I knew Mingus was a genius. I knew two
other things, but as it happens they were wrong.
So I made him look at this poem.
"There's a lot of that going around," he said,
and Sweet Baby Jesus he was right. He glowered
at me but didn't look as if he thought
[...] Read more
poem by William Matthews
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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. . .
[...] Read more
poem by Erica Jong
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The Marionettes Of Distant Masters
A pianist dreams that he's hired by a wrecking company to
ruin a piano with his fingers . . .
On the day of the piano wrecking concert, as he's
dressing, he notices a butterfly annoying a flower in his window
box. He wonders if the police should be called. Then he thinks
maybe the butterfly is just a marionette being manipulated by
its master from the window above.
Suddenly everything is beautiful. He begins to cry.
Then another butterfly begins to annoy the first butterfly.
He again wonders if he shouldn't call the police.
But, perhaps they are marionette-butterflies? He thinks
they are, belonging to rival masters seeing whose butterfly can
annoy the other's the most.
And this is happening in his window box. The Cosmic
Plan: Distant Masters manipulating minor Masters who, in turn,
are manipulating tiny butterfly-Masters who, in turn, are
manipulating him . . . A universe webbed with strings!
Suddenly it is all so beautiful; the light is strange . . .
[...] Read more
poem by Russell Edson
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Bennie The Frog
Bennie always sang in the bath tub
and his dream was to sing with a band.
At night he visited the clubs and pubs
and he travelled throughout the land.
In a pub called the Pig and Whistle
he heard music loud and clear,
but he didn’t hear anyone singing
and thought his chance was here.
When the band took a break from playing
Bennie went over to have a chat.
He asked if he could sing a song with them
and they said yes at the dropp of a hat.
They asked what song he’d be singing
when they returned on stage to play.
Bennie chose an old Rock ‘n’ Roll number,
Buddy Holly’s ‘That’ll Be The Day’.
[...] Read more
poem by Orlando Belo
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Thw Musical Lady
The Musical Lady
I knew of a pavement café where tables and chairs were painted
in different colours, this to lend ambience in an otherwise dreary
street. A young lady, a student at the music conservatorium, came
here for lunch and always insisted on sitting on the same chair,
a rosa one; she was pretty in stern way, long black dress, flat shoes,
plain long hair and big glasses, waiters were happy to oblige her.
This caused jalousie amongst other chairs that wanted her to sit on
them too. In the night they ganged up on the rosa one, upended it
and scratched badly. The owner thought it was the work of vandals,
put the damage chair in the store room, but when the musical lady
came she insisted to sit on her chair damaged or not. Other seats
felt bad realizing it was not the rosa’s fault but the idiosyncrasy of
the artist, so in the night the spruced up the rosa till it looked as new.
But now the pianist didn’t want it, not the same as before, she said
and sat on a yellow chair. Feeling a miffed the gleaming new looking
seat said to itself: “No big shake she had a narrow, cold bum anyway.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Shimmering Water
On the banks of River Rhine
Under the morning sun
And the blue sky shining
The gentle breeze rustled
Along the silvery water
Wooden boats sailed slowly
Accompanied by choir of bee
Which sounds melodious and sweet
The beautiful little flowers grow
Whiter than fur than snow
Full of smiles, looking at
Gold fishes that are playing
The wonderful rotating cloud
Which is the natural grace
Singing love songs in Spring
To the leaves are greenish
[...] Read more
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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