Poem A Day - Poem for April 11, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
You know the best laid plans aren't always completed. I finished my poem much earlier today, but if you've been reading my crazy meanderings for awhile you'll know that my family requires a lot of time. Also the people next door were having a birthday party for their little boy. He's two years old today and that is kind of a miracle. When he was born he had respiratory problems and he was on a respirator full time until he was a year old. Now I think they only use it once and awhile and he is growing and healthy looking. So people kept ringing our bell, because ours is the first door they came to and we'd look outside and they'd be gone. Then kids kept running up and down the stairs and banging on the porch railing all night long. It was hard to do anything but watch TV.:)
"I want you to write a poem about an object (or objects). Though you don't have to confine yourself to straight up description, I do want you to focus on object and/or make it a central piece of your poem. One of the more famous poems of contemporary literature does this wonderfully in William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow." (from Poetic Asides with Robert Brewer)
Mom wanted to keep it
in her living room to hold
her picture frames

each time I sat on her
gold couch always covered
by the green couch cover
I’d beg her to give the piano to me
on the ivory keys –kept the
bench moved so there wouldn’t
be a mark in the gold carpet
I’d visit from across the street,
where we landed after Buffalo,
to play. My fingers moved
over the keys wanting to be better.
Amusing myself in an hour stolen
away from children’s prattle and
endless tasks.
I’d play my favorites, “Arragonnaise” and
“Fur Elise” improvising and dreaming
The music moving me beyond her small
Kew Gardens living room into a world
filled with peace and the crisp sound
of major and minor chords as my
right hand tapped notes harmonizing
with the dreamy pleasure found when
I opened the cover and music floated
over and through me obliterating
sirens and doors slamming. Again
I’d ask when will this be mine?
Never wanting to hear the answer
Knowing the sad day
That day came and we moved
the piano everywhere we lived
Though it is not played
Once more mute, untuned
Again a display piece.
She didn’t want the piano
all those years ago
The tune she wanted was me.
copyright 2009 by Barbara Ehrentreu

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