Pianoforte

Feb 15 2015

You can't play a wrong note on the piano.

Even though its ivory keys

are streaked yellow-brown.
Like an old man, whose teeth show their age
but smiles, anyway.

And even though its minor keys

are no longer glossy.
Still black
but dull as weathered wood.

A few have lost their lift;
they lie flat,
a finger thuds, and catches.

But the carved frame
is gorgeous as ever;
burnished wood, and baroque ornamentation
showing sings of wear
from years of playing.

A crew of sweaty men, grunting, swearing
struggled to move it.
A blind man
head lowered, ear cocked
kept it lovingly tuned.

In those days
aspiring parents
paid a neighbourhood lady
to teach.
I day-dreamed
hands lazy, eyes glazed
while she rolled hers,
a sullen inanimate object
who never learned.
Dutiful parents

ungrateful kid.

But even I
can play a perfect note
on the piano.
It forgives
its delinquent pupils
like no other instrument,
the squeaky violin, painfully wincing,
honking sax
red-faced horn.

It sits
in the same abandoned corner
like a long-lived animal,
hulking, patient, slow.
Waiting
to be wakened
by human touch.

Can still make beautiful music
that starts with a single note;
sustained, over-toned
hard or soft,
even I
can coax out of it.
My index finger strikes
eyes closed, ear cocked.

So little effort
such easy power.

I recently read a piece about an accomplished pianist discussing his art. He said just this: you can't play a wrong note on the piano.How true! Try that on the violin or flute.

What a remarkable instrument: containing an entire symphony, capable of such power and restraint. One that requires such mastery and dexterity and virtuosity to play well, yet forgives the most inept beginner, who can play a perfect note without ever practicing, can compose a simple melody just by sitting down at the keyboard and plunking something out.

Pianos seem to inhabit a room forever. They sit with an air of gravity, permanence, strength. I can imagine that piano from my childhood still there: mute, immoveable, preternaturally patient; just waiting to be brought back to life.

Re-reading, I realize there is a delightful but wholly unintentional inversion here: me, an inanimate object, while the piano is a long-lived animal. And it's also personified in other ways: in the smiling old man, in conferring forgiveness. And even the violin, wincing; the horn, red-faced.

If that piano does show wear from years of playing, it certainly had nothing to do with me. Credit my older brother, who was both obedient, and mildly talented. I assiduously shirked practice. Learned absolutely nothing. And am horribly unmusical to this day.

The disproportion between action and effect may be unique to this instrument (electronic ones don't count!) It amplifies us, makes us bigger. We can reach in with our finger tips and rouse it; ride its power with a simple touch.