July 2002
mais oui,
both of them used the piano today,
and it’s always good to hear you play,
but when the raised flag got the train away...
the afternoon concert commenced its run
with the sister practising Grade One;
at nearly nine, she’s having fun
with a Russian Air, a Gavotte in C
and Walking Jazz that runs so free,
a melange of a jamboree,
fingers flying on the keys,
making boring minims sneeze,
one man crotchets played with ease,
crescendo here, andante there,
a rocking song, or simple air,
a youngster’s unembarrassed flair
from the computer I watch her try
to make the irritable quavers fly,
or a rallentando lullaby,
now, the time for her brother to play
the teacher set works for today,
but things don’t always work that way
from a child’s mind, here’s something,
concentrated new thoughts pumping,
whistle, flag, lights change, and bumping,
the steam train jolts, begins to pull
from Paris onto Istanbul,
tender, carriage, box car full,
puffing hard, wheezing, grunting,
it begins the two day eastbound shunting
those who are Turkish carpet hunting
notes of platforms, pistons, steam,
tea time passengers, cakes with cream,
polished windows, woodwork gleam,
using discordant seconds to bait
the whistle as the wheels rotate
and the sleepers and clicking points vibrate;
the four minim girl is very keen
to join in with the tambourine,
enhancing the near eastern scene,
banging, turning, crashing, shaking,
her palm, and nails, long fingers making
the battered tambourine bells quaking,
rhythm creating,
complete with wild gesticulating,
as the momentum now begins abating
in the jet stream fan, her long hair flowing
now, rall and rit, the music slowing,
fading down the tracks and going
quietly, as if to send
the express train to the journey’s end,
as it comes around the bend
where the signalmen in peak cap steer
the engine on through to Sofia,
now the Bosporus is near;
a piano safari, where one can enjoy
a semi tonal hoi polloi,
told by a crew-cut singlet ten year boy,
‘Was that good?’, happy, he turns to me,
the excitement that is clear to see,
enjoying their creativity;
perhaps the notes can learn to fly
high up in afternoon's bright sky,
where aircraft engines make wisps that cry,
you dream of an earth with music rain,
showers of clefs fill an overture drain
in Portsmouth Point and Cockaigne,
where ice comes down as middle C
and melting snow is A flat B,
and Strauss avalanche flattens Alpine tree,
and 3/4 time where waltzes flow
or 9/8 time that goes so slow,
Gymnopodies when the cool flutes blow,
brass and woodwind warm up to play
while the four part strings get tuned to A,
the conductor batons the air away;
the summer’s breezes whisper E,
the morning mist clings tight to G,
and Grandad tunes in to radio three;
piano playing can make for you
a world that other things can’t do,
a place where you two can escape to, too,
a place where notes become your art
found in your brain, your hands, your heart,
the knowledge that can impart
then lose yourself in a childhood dream
of the footplate crew and the hissing steam,
or make your own invented theme
of sea, or sky, or beach,
or clocks, or trees, or towns, or pear or peach,
or anywhere your mind can reach,
of beach or sky, or clock or sea,
or cars, or towns, or farm or tree,
or anywhere you want your mind to be;
now time for bed at end of the day,
when mint toothpaste and the shampoo play,
then piano notes take you away
to dream of things that no-one knows,
eyelids flutter and want to close,
your brain shuts off and you begin to doze...
tomorrow morning, hug the sun
while you take your breakfast tea and bun,
then grab the piano to make more notes run...
nos da, bonne nuit.
