When pianos are not played,
they become very sad,
they collect silent notes.
Unplayed music floats –
invisible dust of overtones.
The dead are waiting expectantly:
so many keys – 88 – all untouched.
The day of silent music
sheds the signature of uncaptured Time.
(“What are you practicing now?”
my mother asks me quietly.
Her eyebrows raised. I shrug.)
Standing in my living room
Is a mahogany Knabe upright
Upon it's massive weight
Display 88 ivory keys
Born yellow over 80+ years of time
Three foot pedals sulking for lack of stimuli
Wherefrom beautiful music once emanated
Mother and sis were talented pianists
I make with it a cacophony of sounds
And wipe off settled dust
With Pledge furniture polish
Years ago i pledged allegiance to sports
Over learning to play piano
I made a mistake
Posted by: Joel Weiner | October 16, 2021 at 07:38 AM
I am reading this sitting on the couch next to a rarely played piano and the silent notes are deafening
Posted by: Barbara Huntington | October 16, 2021 at 09:55 AM
Thank you Lera Auerbach for all of your gifted poems
From them i gleam and abstract creative ideas
Lifting words which become personal attempts
To poeticize as a developing poetaster
Posted by: Joel Weiner | October 16, 2021 at 02:47 PM
The one thing that almost everyone regrets in adulthood: "I wish I had not stopped the music lessons." It is a small grief not to have music in one's life. Its mystery and beauty carry us through. It creates an intimate space where we feel more truly ourselves.
I agree with these previous, lovely comments. Thank you, Lera Auerbach, for the inspiration.
Posted by: Emily Fragos | October 17, 2021 at 02:02 AM
Thank you for the poem -- and for the enlightening and appreciative comments from Joel W. and Emily F.
Posted by: sarah gelder | October 17, 2021 at 12:12 PM