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Minor- For the Music Challenge
| Open Poetry #10 |
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Minor- For the Music Challenge |
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Michael G Senior Member
since 2000-06-25
Posts 579Nashville |
This was a waste. All of it. Simply put, it was not worth the time it took nor the energy it stole. I could see he couldn’t stand how he felt at this moment. God’s greatest gift, the last of the players in this symphony of hell. How easy it would all be if they would let him go on first and be done with the obligatory competition that always followed. I thought of his hands and how they had started to grow out in their adolescent ways. How they appeared monster like in proportion to the rest of his body. I could see those feelings had started to surface in him once more. Those that he did not care to feel but would come to contort his mind and soul for the time it took to get this ugly business done. Another moment passed, quickly, silently though to him it’s hard to imagine anything being such. He has found himself in that akward familiar place like so many times before. Looking around as one after another go to their doom. Have they not figured it out by now that it’s all fruitless, that for them there will be no triumph. He smirks to himself, engaging the ridicule of the adults around him. He wonders if Amedeus had to go through this private little hell. He walks stiffly, almost roboticly from his hiding place. A figure that does not command the respect that we should give him. His clothes looking as though they had been purchased for someone smaller make him look almost comical. He hurries to the piano centered on stage, making it seem as if it is his one refuge from all of the problems surrounding him at this moment. Taking his seat, and pause. Eyes closed beneath a mop of hair, framed in a face that is full of confusion and passion. Another moment passes, silently he breaths. Time to remember, time to think. The first notes come quietly, from another world they are born. Not mere pieces on a manuscript, these are words that are being formed from his heart. My mind understands this passion but has trouble comprehending how it is possible in one so young, fifteen at best he is. A body that is exploding in growth from so many different proportions. His hands alone look like paddles yet command the keys with a touch I have not seen in many years. His eyes remain closed as the music is built around him, his protector of sorts, it combines the passion that he yearns to show and the anger he brings. What work has been undertaken over the past to accomplish this I wonder. I see not the lost boy that came from stage left, not a man either, someone in between that has come. The words he creates from the keys are not all that transparent, wanting to be heard, to be understood. He plays on, more passion begins added with what was left from the first. The words blending into one brought forth with such magnificence that you cannot ignore. A thousand notes separate, together making chords that sing to the soul first then to the heart. What strain the single note brings is combined with his own for his youthfulness fights to maintain control against the onslaught of becoming an adult. At times, there are two distinct meters, similar and different, that produce the words that come from his hands. The last pause. Another moment of reflection. Can that be his purpose to this affair? Another note is struck and before I can question again the answer comes in the form of opus 39 from Rachmoninov. I see now why he pauses, as anyone would before playing such from a master, though he produces sound that even the master would be forced to weep. More so the hands amaze me. They contrast just like the rest of this scene, but the musician in me understands what connection is being made. The simple act of touch is multiplied to the point of extension with one’s body, soul and mind. Never to understand the difference between yourself and the instrument, it is simply lost. He has this feature, and I find that I am jealous for I have lost mine. Without warning, it ends. And just as quickly he leaps from the seat bows curtly and leaves showing the youthfulness he wanted to forget. He sees the small crowd gathered backstage, their eyes lost to him, the look of defeat he has come to know. They want to talk to him, say something that will ease their own pain, but he will have none of it. He brushes past them, finds the door that leads outside. Another moment pauses as the foul city air envelopes him, taken over his lungs like the cruelty he has done to the others left to wonder inside. I find that I am know longer in awe of his talent as I am angry with myself for having let mine go. As I come around the corner, he is there looking ever more the child he wishes he still were. Tears have taken his sight from him and all that is left is to scream. The pain and anger have returned, for a moment forgotten in the mist of words played out from the hands of greatness. |
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| © Copyright 2000 Michael G - All Rights Reserved | |||
Sven
since 1999-11-23
Posts 14937East Lansing, MI USA |
I have known ones like the one you describe. . . 14 and 15. . . yet the passion that lies in their hands and hearts would make the hardest man weep. . . and warm the coldest heart. . . Perfectly describes the melding that happens when performer and instrument are one. . . they are part of one another. . . the performer telling of his pain, his joy, his love. . . This is an excellent prose poem. . . and does the challenge proud. . . Superb. . . --------------------------------------------------------------- That which gives light must endure burning --Victor Frankl |
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Marina Member Elite
since 2000-02-10
Posts 2245Pickering, Ontario |
I love your thoughts and the intellect behind this. A very thought provoking prose. You are an excellent writer!!!  Marina It is a blessing to have wings for words, and passion in pen Marina Crossley |
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Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648 |
This is a masterpiece, Michael. I am speechless. Take your bow! Denise |
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