Piano-Related Poetry

SOFTLY, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

1918

Old friend, patient of error as of accuracy,
Ready to think the fingerings of thought,
You but a scant year older than I am
With my expectant mother expecting maybe
An infant prodigy among her stars
But getting only little me instead–

To see you standing there for six decades
Containing chopsticks, Für Elise, and
The Art of Fugue in your burnished rosewood box,
As well as all those years of silence and
The stumbling beginnings the children made,
Who would believe the twenty tons of stress
Your gilded frame's kept stretched out all this while?

The piano tuner spoke to me, that tenderest
attender to each note
who looking over sharp and flat
hears and glimpses something more remote.
And his ears make no mistake
nor do his hands that in each chord awake
those sounds delighted to keep house together.
Disinterest is my interest:
I don't confuse music and instrument, mere
piano tuner that I am,
calligrapher of that superhuman speech
which lifts me as a guest to its high sphere.
Oh! what new Physics waits up there to teach
other matters to another ear...

(translated from Portugese by James Merrill)

Story & Clark 5' 3" grand #120923, 1927 $900.00 in the window. We deliver!
Daily practice at least an hour. Scales, theory book, lessons.
Mistakes, start over, too fast, wrong note, where is my pencil?
Recital next week, am I ready? Getting better now.

Years pass, seasonal tunings, pins hold tight.
Sounds good now, keep practicing.
Johnny wants to quit, Mom says no. Someday you will thank me, you'll see.
Give me an hour or no radio show!

Johnny goes to war over there.
Piano is silent, waits for victory.
Home coming, family, a new generation. Mom, can we have the piano?
Rock and Roll, I Love Lucy, Good Golly Miss Molly!

All tuned up, cleaning, regulation. Here's the bill Ma'am. Remember, twice a year!
Time for your lesson, this is middle C. Tap your foot slowly.
An hour a day! Good job! Sit up straight!
Back when I was your age...

Look, all grown up! Piano is older. Suzy goes to the prom.
No time for lessons, college you know.
Bob Dylan, protest, Give Peace a Chance, we have lift off. My Fellow Americans!
Strings silent again, pitch goes flat, dust on the soundboard.

Disco, Star Wars, time to clean house. Hey, I'll give you $500 for it. Are you kidding?
Call the tuner, it's only a couple of bad notes. This bench seems wobbly.
Hammer shaping, regulation, these pins are a little loose. What does that mean?
I think I paid too much. It looks bad, maybe I'll paint it myself. Good lord!

Time to practice, your lesson is next week! Awww Mom... Don't argue!
I'll call the tuner. What do you mean it needs a "pitch raise?" I had it tuned only four years ago!
Mrs. Jones, might I suggest a better instrument? See the cracks? Hear the buzz?
If he learns to play this one I'll buy him a better one!

Goo Goo Dolls, Microsoft, READ MY LIPS!
Okay, I'll get rid of it. He prefers football.
FOR SALE - BEST OFFER
What a deal. Honey, look what I bought! Happy Birthday! What?

Sorry Mr. Miller, the pins are loose. The strings are rusted and the board is cracked.
The bridges are splitting, the hammers are worn, the legs are loose and the bushings are gone.
The wippens are shot, the action is bad, the dampers need replacement.
CONGRATULATIONS MR. & MRS. MILLER! You'll love your new piano. We'll haul off the old one for free.

"I'll take one last look" says RPT. Nope, I think she's a goner.
Sad and silent, the keys softly weep.
Eighty years of history, time to sleep.
Taking up space, no hope, the patent is terminal.

PARTY! - Where's my sledge?
How about "Monster Truck Night"?
Maybe a nice piano fire, we'll get a keg.
Where is my video camera? I'm thinking You Tube!

Twas the noon hour and time I must toon. Mrs. Jones was waiting and wanting it soon.
Back and forth, up and down, where's the address, I keep driving 'round!
The time is ticking, the clock ticks its tock, I must try to hurry around the next block!

At last I saw what I came to see, a mail box with numbers, one two and three.
As I knocked on the door catching my breath, a woof bow wow from the right, then the left!
I hope he is friendly, the fur I will see. I do like to happy and bouncy puppy!

The door swang its swing and there dressed in black, the dear Mrs. Jones whom I had called back.
Her slippers were worn, her hair was a mess, but I hadn't the time to care how she dressed.
Where's the piano, the tinkler box? She pointed behind her, the box with a vox.

Right away I could tell there was trouble. Not just a bit but a double double trouble!
For there it was right there at hand, a piano called "Grand" but it actually stands!
A spinet in fact, not a thing one could brag. It was old, it was dirty, it was everything sad.

I opened my case with the tools of my trade. What I opened next just made me pray.
It was flat as flat can be as it sat, it had spills inside and fur from the cat.
There were stains on the keys and parts that were broke, and a smell that smelled like cigarette smoke.

As I looked at the works that failed to do so, I noticed a mouse that died long ago. The felt was all eaten, just wouldn't you know!
I took out my vacuum and vacuumed the mess, the droppings it left and the unwanted guest.
When at last the cleaning was done I moved on to the next bit of fun.

With lever in hand and placed on a pin, I turned on my tooner so I could begin.
With a flick of the wrist the pitch then did twitch, upward and onward without a glitch.
But then what I heard from a string that was wound, a "pop" from inside, just a horrible sound!

All at once I knew what had happened, a string had unstrung, and a damp would not dampen!
I cursed the piano, this pile of rust! This thing will not play, it's not worth the fuss.
Holding my tongue I moved on to the next, and the next and the next and the next and the next.

At last I was done but the job was not over. I must fix the string, and parts broken moreover!
I undid the levers, the things that all move, I took them apart and then used my glue.
Over an hour I tinkered away, at least the parts would then partly play.

I closed up my case and wrote out a bill. The piano was awful but junior was thrilled.
Not a minute to waste, I checked out her check. All was in order and I hastened my step.
To my ride I then flew fast out the door. This is just the beginning, I still have two more!

I started the motor and motored away, wishing that this was the end of my day.
I looked at my watch, I was late once again! Where is my map, where is my pen?
I rushed down the road, I must try to leave sooner, but that's how it is in the life of a tooner.

A C, and Eb, and a G go into a bar. The bartender says, "Sorry, but we don't serve minors." So the Eb leaves and the C and the G have an open fifth between them. After a few drinks, the fifth is diminished and the G is out flat. An F comes in and tries to augment the situation, but is not sharp enough.

A D comes into the bar and heads for the bathroom, saying, "Excuse me. I'll just be a second." Then an A comes into the bar, but the bartender is not convinced that this relative of C is not a minor. Then the bartender notices a Bb hiding at the end of the bar and exclaims, "Get out now. You're the seventh minor I've found in this bar tonight."

The Eb, not easily deflated, comes back to the bar the next night in a 3 piece suit with nicely shined shoes. The bartender (who used to have a nice corporate job) says, "You're looking sharp tonight – come on in. This could be a major development." This proves to be the case, as the Eb takes off his suit, and everything else, and is au natural.

Eventually the C sobers up and realizes in horror that he's under a rest. The C is brought to trial, found guilty of contributing to the diminution of a minor, and is sentenced to 10 years of DS without Coda at an upscale correctional facility. On appeal, however, the C is found innocent of any wrongdoing, even accidental, and that all contrary motions are bassless.

"It ain't the fall I mind, so much; it's the sudden stop."

Trajectory: The path described by an object moving in space; esp., the path of a projectile.

This is not normally the sort of descriptive word we use in our day to day dealings with pianos. As a rule, we generally tend to think of pianos as fundamentally monolithic units having roughly the weight and mass of the heel stone of any famous Paleolithic Druid Observatory you could name. This is essentially true, but (I'm sure you are beginning to fear) not the whole story. Despite their ponderous presence, pianos almost universally harbor a secret wish to fly.

Nearly all of you have seen the aftermath of a piano's ill fated attempt to "Slip the surly bonds of earth" and grab some air. This sort of desperate bid for freedom usually occurs during the physical relocation of the instrument, as in the change of domicile or the unreasonable insistence of some member (the boss) of the house that the piano must be moved to a floor either higher or lower than the one it currently occupies. In the case of an altitude relocation within the house, the piano's chances for aerial freedom are somewhat limited. The best it can realistically hope for is a brief but intense rush down a flight or two of stairs hoping that its progress isn't disappointingly impeded by any slow or inattentive individuals down below. The folks on top aren't a problem. When the piano initially breaks and runs, they immediately yell, let go, and jump back out of the way. No matter how sharply honed the reflexes of the "downhill" contingent of the moving team are, it's still pretty tough to beat a stampeding piano to the bottom of a flight of stairs. Catching a charging piano is something most people don't instinctively jump to do. Many a well meaning helper has discovered this as he suddenly finds himself all alone in the path of a rogue piano. The final alternative, at least in the narrow enclosed stairways leading to most basements, is to attempt to climb over the top of the rapidly descending instrument and get to a place of safety among the leaping and yelling "uphill" faction of the moving team. This would seem to be the more attractive alternative, affording the best opportunities for immediate survival and subsequent retribution, but I have yet to see this done successfully.

The process of relocation from one residence to another offers a much richer range of possibilities for the aerobatically inclined piano. Imagine a large, heavy item on a narrow wheelbase four wheeled dolly, balanced at the top of a sideless ramp, six feet above a concrete surface by a crew of two who, less than thirty six hours ago, were flunking out of arts and crafts at Light Lode University. Now, ACTION! Sometimes, pianos don't need any nominally human help to take the plunge from a moving van. I've seen the results of these spontaneous bursts of gravitational optimism. Use of the word "burst" here is not altogether unintentional as the results of a piano leaping out of a moving van without the aid of ramps or any other altitude modification prosthesis can affect a surprising amount of real estate. also, to avoid any misunderstanding concerning the designation "moving van", let me clarify that the vans were of the moving variety and not, themselves, in motion at the time of the incidents. Pickup truck moves, however, are a different story.

The first year I was in this business, I got a call from a reasonably harmless sounding individual inquiring whether I would like a free piano. My personal cynicism not yet having developed to its present degree, I asked him about the circumstances surrounding this admirable philanthropic gesture. "Oh hell", he said, "The damn thing fell off the truck." Wow! This was still new to me and I just had to see this for myself. I got the directions to the intersection where the piano still was (it had apparently happened about ten minutes before he called) and headed out. What I found was the remains of a piano at peace with its life's ambitions. The guy moving it had, with the help of another individual, muscled it into the back of the pickup. They collectively reasoned that pianos are heavy, like gravel, wouldn't move around, also like gravel, and therefore needn't be tied down. They then drifted from their basic gravel analogy by installing the moving accomplice in the back with the piano to hold it in case of load shift. BZZZZZ! Wrong, thank you for playing! They should have stuck with the gravel program and had the poor guy in the cab where he was safe. The piano, sensing that the walls were down, seized its opportunity on the first curve and, shrugging off the panicky attempts of the cargo master/smashee to restrain it, took majestic flight over the port side and rolled casters over lid prop at forty miles per hour, shedding any parts unnecessary to the process, along fifty feet of ditch. It met a violent end but, for a brief but glorious moment, It flew! The guy in the back was vastly impressed on the inadvisability of fielding pop-fly pianos and didn't even have to heal up afterwards. He lucked out, big time! Education of any sort is enormously enhanced by massive infusions of adrenalin, in my personal experience. The absence of broken bones and blood was just a lucky bonus. By the time I arrived, they had both already passed the babbling panic stage, made a relieved injury inventory, and passed into a state of goofy embarrassment. We stood around making amusing and pithy observations while they gradually wound down enough to help me toss the carcass et al into my truck. I hauled the remains away for odd hinges, brackets, lumber and screws (I SAID it was my first year). Altogether, it was mostly a happy ending. I won (screw drawer seed), the guy in the back won (he lived), and the piano won biggest of all (at least in the flamboyance category). The only loser was the owner of the now damaged pickup and piano kit. Fortunately, he was lucid enough to be grateful that no one was squashed, so the rest of the disaster was a cinch.

Pianos aren't always so flagrant about their attempts at flight. They will also occasionally throw themselves off stages or platforms. This may be a final act of despair at never getting a chance at an accompanied pickup ride, but could just as easily be an enraged attempt to kill the drummer. It's been considered by more than just the piano, you know.

In any case, piano psychology being somewhat of an inexact science, the final score for the dive can be computed by multiplying the length and breadth of the resulting debris field. The size and number of the recoverable pieces can also be factored in if necessary in the event of a tie.

This covers most of the basic phenomena of whole piano ballistics, except for a rather more notably distinguished episode of Northern Exposure in which a piano was flung into the weeds with much ado and outstanding result. Maybe next month we can further explore the subject in the interior of an otherwise well behaved and stationary piano. There's a lot of stuff slinging around, and it's not just because it's an election year.