A potted palm on top of her piano;
an old upright which had certainly seen
better days...like stepping back in time
to some erstwhile ‘sepia age’;
she, and the White Cliffs Hotel,
on the sea-front at Dover where we’d stop
with the kids for the night – channel-hopping
on the way to our holidays in France.
It became quite a family ‘thing’...
a kind of game we played. Would the lady
at the piano still be there this year?
Every time we went, we made bets
as to whether or not she’d ‘popped
her clogs’ yet...Irreverent, I know,
but we meant no harm...just
what one does, sometimes.
Fingers, bent and arthritic...stuttered,
then stroked the keys, as they trembled
like a bird – hesitant to land
on a quavering branch
lest it should snap.
Her pizzazz had got up and gone,
but her sostenuto – wistful;
the wind, singing through
the pines, was to die for,
and the melody fair ached
with a longing to be true
to itself...
and yet these remnants of a tune
half remembered – half
forgotten – more lovely than
whatever it was foolish enough
to think it was.
Comments
Stan | April 9, 2012 - 13:41
Brilliant, Tina. How do you keep spinning all these gems? I shouldn't ask - that's part of the magic.
So much in this... and the whole sense captured in those final stanzas... the melancholy reflection on how much has gone, yet how much beauty still remains - just.
...and that hotel is still there, I think. If it's the one I'm thinking of, it's a shadow of its former glory. How apt is that? :)
Silver Spun Sand | April 9, 2012 - 14:59
Gosh, Stan...I don't believe that building is still there. I'm glad it is mind, but I am sorry it has fallen into disrepair. It was a splendind building.
But, at least I have my memories of it as it was.
So pleased you enjoyed this. As a family, we often speak of that wonderful lady and I guess this is my way of keeping her memory alive.
Tina;-)
InspiredWriter | April 9, 2012 - 15:49
I admire you, really I do. Every poem that you create is just fantastic, memories made real and alive, I love it! (Also love the piano as well, what a fabulous instrument)
IW x
Silver Spun Sand | April 9, 2012 - 17:37
Many thanks IW, for your kind words. The piano is my first love (after my partner, of course).
Really pleased you enjoyed this one so much.
Tina x
Rhiannonw | April 9, 2012 - 19:12
Lovely description, Tina. Rhiannon
Silver Spun Sand | April 9, 2012 - 19:17
Good of you to say so, Rhiannon. Really appreciated.
Tina
ScoZen | April 9, 2012 - 19:35
Stan The Man has hit it on the head Sand Lady.
Just how do you do it, I'm quite envious.
Ohh, I had to look up "...sostenuto..."
Another new word for my grey matter.
Kind regards.
Silver Spun Sand | April 9, 2012 - 21:31
Hi there, ScoZen...had missed you, of late.
Discovering a new word is like finding a pearl in an oyster shell, of that there is no doubt.
Hope the world is being kind to you, and hey...thanks for dropping by;-)
Sand Lady
Esther | April 10, 2012 - 10:59
Wonderful poem; which I will 'taste' long after I have closed my computer down. The palm, the arthritic fingers,memories of childhood etc.
Silver Spun Sand | April 10, 2012 - 11:03
Thank you, Esther. Much appreciated;-)
Tina
Denzella | April 10, 2012 - 22:02
Hello Tina,
Me again. Yes, I loved this poem too. You really brought the room and the lady into my imagination. You know I don't claim to be a poet but one line did jar for me. Actually, just the last two words really
in the last line of the fourth stanza I want to read them the other way round. 'sometime does' to does sometime. Though I'm not sure about this...it just struck me that way. I feel like I'm nit picking a beautiful poem so feel free to ignore me.
Much enjoyed as usual.
Moya
sue dinum | April 10, 2012 - 22:48
I absolutely loved this, Tina. Great imagery which as always with your work, took me to a place. Love this stanza:
A potted palm on top of her piano;
an old upright which had certainly seen
better days...like stepping back in time
to some erstwhile ‘sepia age’;
and this one:
Fingers, bent and arthritic...stuttered,
then stroked the keys, as they trembled
like a bird – hesitant to land
on a quavering branch
lest it should snap.
My mum's fingers were swollen badly with arthritis (she had such lovely hands once), but she still played the piano really well.
Thanks for the images - love the idea of a lonely pianist playing in a deserted hotel bar, which was a memory from the past which came to me for one reason or another.
sue
Silver Spun Sand | April 11, 2012 - 08:39
Hi there, Moya...you are inspired. Seriously, I mean it. Those last two words had been bugging me for ages. Every time I read it out loud, I stumbled on them, and thought it was just me. The answer was simple though, and you had it, so I have duly swapped them round, as you suggested. It reads much better now. Thank you so much;-)
Pleased you enjoyed;-)
Tina
Silver Spun Sand | April 11, 2012 - 08:42
sue, I was really touched by your words, and I thank you for them. I would have loved to have heard your mum on the piano.
I am really pleased you found the poem evocative. Memory can be a strange thing.
Have a good week;-)
Tina