The Concert Pianist & Bernini’s David

hands on piano

The Concert Pianist

 

Through her half-open window, she lets out

a series of sweet notes, the melodious raindrops,

repeats and repeats till a lively

mountain stream comes to life

in the opening of the concerto

she has chosen to practice this afternoon.

 

And the fast notes flow down to the sidewalk

like a small stream emptying into a pond.

And although the rhythm and cadence appear

natural, they follow a pre-composed order

and flow downwards, like all her years

wholly dedicated to daily practice

that have come and to come.

 

And the flows of orderly movements

and the confident strikes

her agile fingers are raining on the keyboard

give her the illusion of control, yet that

which she so loves,

unbeknown to her, takes over control of her life.

 

Bernini’s David

 

His eyes narrow, his jaws clench,

and his muscular arms and shoulders twist

against the powerful hips

in the coiled position he has practiced

thousands of times before

in the shepherds’ field.

And the round stone in his sling awaits

forceful release

to deliver the killing blow.

And all coiled and ready,

he dwells his gaze

on the advancing target as if

he willed the target to loom larger

before he uncoils, twirls, and fires

—and thus propels his own ascension

from the field of shepherds

towards the realm of stars.

 

 

 

  • Polly

    Loved “The Concert Pianist” poem. I could almost hear the music. I could certainly feel the joy and see the picture so beautifully painted by your words. Just pure magic.