Etudé of Sorrow

Etudé of Sorrow

Status: Finished

Genre: Poetry

Houses:

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Poetry

Houses:

Summary

A free-verse poem that follows the long lost notes of a neglected piano. The owner, a single father whom has despaired at his inability to play after the traumatic death of his partner, it is until the inexperienced prodigy caught in the middle, re-awakens the melancholy instrument full of past emotion and mourning.
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Summary

A free-verse poem that follows the long lost notes of a neglected piano. The owner, a single father whom has despaired at his inability to play after the traumatic death of his partner, it is until the inexperienced prodigy caught in the middle, re-awakens the melancholy instrument full of past emotion and mourning.

Content

Submitted: March 24, 2017

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: March 24, 2017

A A A

A A A


Beams of light catch the polished black finish,

Unveiling glorious swept angles and faces,

The gleaming body beacons attention

For its keys to be caressed once more,

A worn leather perch beside is primed,

For an eager prodigy to shine,

Idle strings grow tiresome of neglect,

Yearning to perform.

 

A magnificent beauty sat in lonesomeness,

Glinting young eyes cannot resist,

Not of his typical electronic drone,

But of symphony strong and true,

From the gentle lift of the fallboard

To the graceful bentside form,

Provides satisfaction for the senses,

Heaven’s instrument to behold.

 

The first note in decades

Escapes like an elegant spirit,

A smooth key movement releases the soul

And a tender hum comforts the ear,

Note after note produce a sublime sound,

Strings resonate in unison,

A series of perfect combinations emanate

Sustained melodies like an angel’s call,

Reverberations that flow long and deep,

The honest notes harbour a story.

 

A past of tears and sweat hide behind the pedals,

Ephemeral love retreats between the strings,

Arduous rehearsing of pain and anger

Amounting to a dream never seized,

The suffered eyes do weep at its sight,

A sour memoir to receive care from compassionate cloth

And from fingers of polish,

Not of a symphonist.


© Copyright 2017 Jason Millar. All rights reserved.

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