Monday, November 19, 2018
Last week, one of the block factors began to crack, and this poem happened. I've given a bit of spit and polish to it, and I'm a little more pleased than with the stream of conscious version that poured out of the crack. People who have seen the SOC version seem to like it. Even after revision, I think it still needs a little more musicality. In my experience, if my gut is telling me to put it out there no matter what doubts I may have, it's time to throw it out on stage with jazz hands. So here it is, enjoy:
Ghosts in the Piano
In the end,
We were given a piano
from the widower
of a piano teacher.
We showed up ready to buy it
but he refused when he heard my mother played,
And my sons play, and my daughter wants to play.
His wife had passed away around the same time.
He couldn’t bear to keep it in the house.
He stored it at neighbors who agreed to sell it for him.
The woman told me stories of her gentle friend
teaching students with autism,
and declared that she and my mother must have
put their heads together in heaven to put us together.
The widower refused to take our money.
The old Wurlitzer has been in our house for months now,
I’m just getting around to cleaning it.
The smell of piano wire and old wood,
dust, ivory, and leather have been
filling our house.
Stickers label the keys worn most from middle C to the least -
out the keyboard, the end keys still mostly legible and white.
I’ve been wanting to peel them off.
I’m peeling them off,
the clean ones are easiest to lift.
The left hand middle G is worn straight through.
Its ink-stained ivory tells me the stories of thousands of fingers who have played.
Some dancing, some plodding until hopefully,
My mother’s ghost is happy to hear me bang on it.
I was never good at lessons, but would slowly
teach myself songs I liked, or I’d sit,
a melancholic kid who picked and poked at minor progressions
when bored, then banged on the keys, not unlike Mom’s tarantellas and boogies,
but maybe tunelessly moody.
Now I listen to my children the way she may have listened to us
from other rooms.
One plays the same song over and over,
little another makes stuff up.
The first who visits now and then
just plays what he writes on the fly.
Is that a song by someone else, yours, or are you just noodling?
Just noodling, but there’s a little something to work with.
If I talk, he stops and walks away,
like I did when she talked to me.
As I clean it now, swiping a paper towel with a gentle cleaner along the keys,
I hear myself cleaning Mom’s baby grand,
I hear the echoes of her boogies and tarantellas.
I hear the old teacher in the smell of the piano wires, old wood,
leather, and ivory, and
ghosts of my grandmothers, and all of her students,
my cousins banging on my grandmother’s,
as the ghosts of the thousand sticky fingers are washed off each key.
Finally, I play, awkwardly, never very good,
and the ghosts around me dance.
I'd love to hear from readers, please feel free to contact me through my Contact page.
Be good to yourself and have an extra helping of pie on Thursday.
Thanks for stopping by,
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
I've been working on a short story to an anthology deadline for a couple of weeks. I have essentially two scenes left, tops three, depending how you quantify them. I can see them. They are how the story started in my head, and what made me think this anthology submission would be perfect for this. I have now tinkered with all the writing and edits prior to those crux scenes as much as I can possibly tinker... and still they are difficult to write. What's that old quote? Oh yeah, Hemingway. Well, we all know how he turned out.
"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein."
The kid is finally back to school now the district has reopened since Hurricane Florence, and the one who has moved back home after a year away has some things in the works to go back to school in January... as long as he finishes that process, but seeing how well that is going for me, and knowing how he struggles under pressure, I'm crossing my fingers and trusting he's doing it.
I need to do the same for myself, trust that I have this. I mean, IT'S RIGHT THERE in my noggin, I have notes. What is stopping me? Well, the material is hard stuff, stuff I have spent my life in the practice of avoiding or circumventing if it can be at all. This is how I know telling this story right now is worth it.
I seem to have this block issue a lot in writing, putting my characters through difficult stuff. Well, I know she comes out the other side well, because I ALREADY WROTE THAT!
Okay, now that is out of my system.... time to face those paragraphs, and my own demons.
Thanks for stopping by, and until I am done,