Wednesday, April 10, 2013


"I know where you got your poetry from,"
she said. Sitting here listening

to some random pianist on utube
play Beethoven's Sonata in C Minor (Pathetique),

I close my eyes, and I'm back beside her -
small child again, nose to edge of keyboard -

watching her fingers fly, flawlessly,
far better than whoever I'm listening to now,

and I know she was right. The thunder flowed
through ivory and wire, through the very bones

of her fingers, and carved their echo in mine.


Blogger burning moon said...

listen to it here

it was one of my mum's favourite pieces. this guy plays it exactly as she played it.

It always brings tears to my eyes when I hear one of the pieces she used to play all the time. My childhood runs to the soundtrack of this wonderful music!

9:41 PM  
Blogger Chris Never said...

I had no idea your Mum was of a musical bent, I don't think you have ever mentioned it before? If you have, I apologize for not remembering, I will have a listen to the piece before I comment on the poem, which, by the way, is wonderful :)

6:00 PM  
Blogger Chris Never said...

It is a beautiful, stirring piece of music Moon, and you paint the picture of how it threads through your past, and present, perfectly

3:51 PM  
Blogger burning moon said...

huh? I wrote a reply to this and it disappeared?

Thanks Chris :) Mum was a great pianist. I really wish we'd thought to record her playing while she was alive.
I don't think it ever really occurred to me she might not be around to play one day.

2:49 PM  
Blogger Chris Never said...

Well, at least you have the memory of her playing to listen to in your mind *smile*

When memories are all we have of something, its amazing how well they fit the bill I find.

4:03 PM  

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