introduction to myself

a reflection on how i started playing piano... the keys that i grew up with... the way that memories leave us.

I had no stories of it

to carry on the shoulders of memory.

 

Certain pieces of furniture;

weighty with oak and sentiment,

made my muscles strain to move them

from childhood to here.

 

The piano though,

strangely sterile and serious

slumped regally against the living room wall

and just was.

 

I think it was a Story & Clark upright.

They don’t even make those anymore.

It towered over me

like potential.

It’s power slept under a fine cover of dust

and ordinary.

 

Easy to take mysteries for granted.

Like how food made its way to the table every

morning, noon, and night.

Like how my smile could keep my dad

working double shifts,

inked head to toe with his trade.  

 

Sometimes he would sit down

and stutter out the prelude in c.

Breaking Bach into uneven tempos;

and this would be the piece my fingers

would master ten years later.

 

It seems wrong somehow

to not know the where and why

of how such an important collection

of wood, metal, string, and velvet

came into my life.

 

It was and went without explanation.

My first introduction to myself.

 

Reviews

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

A wonderfully nostalgic write. I especially like the description of your father 'inking his trade' - he must be a very special man. I also played piano from the age of 5 until 15 - I remember a recital where I played the Fur Elise. Unfortunately, after being forced to play for ten years I gave it up and truly regret it now. It would be nice if you could include with this poem some of the music you play assuming you still do. Great write. Thank you.
Light,
Siddartha

[Deborah Leah Krempa]

A very nicely work. I love the piano. My daughter loves the piano. We unfortunately let ours go. She has a keyboard that she now plays quite well though she is in the learning stages. Thank you for sharing. Debileah

[holly]

You have an interesting way with words, shaping them with a fine-edged knife. My favorites in here are
"Its power slept under a fine cover of dust and ordinary." A fine cover of ... ordinary. That is such a real and appealing discription. You made a profound statement here, that we find ourselves first in the art the calls to us. Wonderful poem.

[Ninelilies]

You nailed it. It's place in your home, with your family, the growth within yourself. I especially loved, "It was and went without explanation." Very cool.

[RHEA CROSLEY]

The piano seems to be a great introduction to yourself. Art, creativity, diligence, endurance and other good quality where hammered out in your soul as you made the hammers strike the chord. Good write on working out who you are.

[Raef C. Boylan]

My first thought about your dad is was he a tattoo artist? I'm thinking no, but that was the first obvious interpretation of the "inked with his trade" image; I got a stronger sense of something more manual though - hard work, sacrifice etc. Maybe "ink" = oil?

"a fine cover of...ordinary" - I like this

Some things, so solid a presence in our memory stores, aren't filed away with the detailed associations we later wish they had. I was thinking on this the other day; a kid's development is so interesting and so integral to the adult they later become...yet when we're in the best position to analyse it, we're too busy being the developing kid to take mental notes. Lol.

A really good piece. Thanks for sharing it with us.

p.s.
"It's power slept under a fine cover of dust" [Its]

[Emily B]

This:

Easy to take mysteries for granted

Like how food made its way to the table every

morning, noon, and night.

Like how my smile could keep my dad

working double shifts,

inked head to toe with his trade.



Sometimes he would sit down

and stutter out the prelude in c,

Breaking Bach into uneven tempos

and this would be the mystery my fingers

would unravel ten years later.


. . . is a complete poem in itself. Memories are always so ripe for the plucking of unrecognized poetry.

[Gandré]

I think this my new favorite of yours. There is no doubt this is story blends a number of memories into a fabric of a very real composition, I also wrote two pieces one about a pianist and one about the piano itself or a couple how they enjoy the evening. I totally loved your "Easy to take mysteries for granted." All lines were great especially the ending, I so love that you never repeat yourself. It is always something new. I love classical music, you know it and it is even more special for me now.

[April Child]

Some lovely descriptions here

It towered over me
like potential.
It's power slept under a fine cover of dust

I love the different perspectives of the piece, in retrospect as an adult but also through your eyes as a child. A little peak into your life, a snapshot of your dad, and the piano just there, waiting for you to discover it and discover yourself. Very nice.

[Daisy]

a fascinating poem, one that strikes me with temptation, what you must have felt going past that piano until you touched it, finding keys making sound and finally music. your world is nicely becoming to me reading this with your fascinating recollections.