Just For Myself


Just for myself I open up my books,
square the dots onto the keyboard’s skirt
twirl them with my fingers’ faltering steps=
and shower them in frenzy round the room;
Chopin’s sadness in strange harmony,
Beethoven’s power in outstretched open chords,

Hyden’s impish trickery and surprise,
Mozart’s familiar jingling tunefulness,
in hours of ecstasy run shining minds
take century strides in scripted revelry
and all the feeling that their music wrought
sits on my shoulders, struggles with my hands.
Orchestras swell inside my straining mind
violins sing, flutes float in vibrant air,
sighing cellos concert in my breath
my mind at one, occasionally, with theirs.

Sometimes when I sit, the stand is bare,
blind hands feel the old familiar chords
fingers seeking tunes find tunelessness
that bleeds into the trembling ears of air,
and then, as though a master’s come to guide
a fragment falters, falls into a key,
gives to the air a startling moment’s joy,
a perfect sound, just for myself, for me.


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