| » Poem: Mending Sonata |
Mending Sonata
written by lost_and_forgotten11:26 PM 4/15/05Something there is that doesn't love a sonata,
That sends the frozen playing under it
And spills the melodies in the room,
And makes gaps notes often fall between.
No one has seen them made or heard them made
But at spring festival time we find them here.
I let the judge know within the room
And on a day we part to play
And set the norms between us once again.
We wear our minds quite rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of indoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more.
There where it is, we do not need the sonata.
The judges can still critique, I tell her,
My widowed piano teacher, once more.
She only says, "Good sonatas make good players."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in her head.
"Why do they make good players?" I inquired.
"Before I played a sonata, I'd ask to know
What I was playing in or playing out.
And to whom I was like to do some good.
Something there is that doesn't love a sonata,
That wants it done." I could say this to her
But it's not polite, and then I'd rather
Her say it for herself. I see her there
Bringing a sonata gripped firmly in each hand,
With pencils like an old-time pedant armed.
She moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
She will not go behind the judge's pleasure,
And she likes having thought of it so well,
She says again, " Good sonatas make good players."
~*~Kirsten*Ashley~*~ |
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