Another poem today.
Yesterday, a lurker here asked to see more of the real me. I’m always happy when people want to see more, but I have to admit that I was a bit confused. Which “me” did this person mean exactly? You know, more poetry, more philosophy.
Interesting. I suppose I should confess that those posts always feel off topic to me. Poetry is such a tight, closed world. All of my poet friends listen kindly, but I can tell I’m not part of their world. That’s okay. It’s why I post here sometimes.
And the philosophy posts? Those make me really nervous. After one of those I worry that I’ve turned into just another emo-blogger. Someone pass the dark eyeliner and the fishnet gloves.
I’m kidding of course. Those things are a big part of who I am. So is fantasy (in the broader sense), so is statistics, so is my desire to help organize some real community online that encourages people in their work.
There’s a sense in which everything I do here is practice for something else. I don’t mean I’m practicing for a book. Or some kind of bizarro media empire. Would you believe I heard bloggers still talking about that world domination thing in Las Vegas
I don’t want to dominate the world. Or anyone for that matter. I just want to squeeze in some more practice. Enough blabber. Here’s the poem:
Practice Is an Art
for David Tulley
The pianist plays alone everytime—
learning not to let the world decide
when he creates and when he rests.
Studios, concert halls, practice rooms
hallowed, not hollow, never empty.
The walls, the chairs, the carpet tremble
with potential decisions. Synthetic
fibers of carpet twist together,
their friendships forming expectant
berber curls, their voices hushed
waiting for the performer’s approach.
He clacks the cover from its keyboard,
coughs once and begins to say this
I am—
Meaning something more than self,
more than These hands are mine. These legs
pump pedals, sustain notes, build chords.
This room was not empty before.
I have not filled it except with thanks.
Though as for that, no thanks
depends on him or the one listening,
who wandered into the studio looking
to kill time and fighting music instead.
The battle lost, the audience slumps
low in the back row and hears
practice give voice to everything here.
12 comments ↓
Yes. In a way there is no such thing as practice. It’s all real. It’s all good. It’s all glory to God.
I love the real you. Each and every bit (well, okay, the sci fi is an acquired taste.)
And that poem. I somehow felt it expressed exactly the question of whom you play for here and how. Still, it was good to hear this particular you today.
Sweet. You are the gabcast man!
Oh, and I loved your soapbox on the gabcast!!
Loved that! Thanks so much for not only sharing the words but your voice. Hearing you read it was slightly different than reading it in my own head. You’re the coolest.
Shep, it’s the same kind of compartmentalization that haunts people. We try to make divisions where there are none. Work the same, play the same, act the same, no matter what the context. God is always there.
L.L., thanks for getting me back on track. I actually thought about deleting the soapbox from the audio, but I was going for the “real me.”
Mark, Gabcast isn’t the best for podcasting a high quality show, but it’s great for adding value and media to a blog. Thanks for dropping by!
spaghettipie, part of me thinks reading the poem forces the reader into a particular interpretation. On the other hand, a lot of people haven’t been taught how to read poetry. So I try to include an audio file to demystify the form somewhat. (But I’m getting back on my soapbox…)
You’re brave to post poetry. Very brave. That scares me so much I’ve only done it maybe three times. And you’re good at it, so the bravery isn’t going to come back and bite you.
I love the poem - and truthfully, it actually captures some of what I feel when I sit down at the piano, mine or anyone elses - so I know that you understand something of who I am. This is something I appreciate about poetry - it evokes a response in me that tells me that someone understands something about me and I can identify with another person, the poet.
RLP, you are kind. It’s funny, but I never think about it as being brave. It’s just part of who I am. I really do enjoy reading and writing poetry all the time.
Amazing the number of poems that get written during a sermon (often in response to the sermon topic…)
Susan, I wish I could play the piano! For me, all forms of practice are the same. And all practice is performance. Or all performance is practice. Or all the world’s a stage. Something like that.
1) I just read your comment - you are so bad baiting Ted like that (giggle)
2) I never, ever, thought of practice as the same as performance - they are so very different for me. Practice was, at some times, just a pain and something I didn’t want to do. But there were times when I would just sit down and play when I had no clue what else to do with my life - oh wait, I still do that, just not as well these days. It soothed my soul and helped me sort things out without me ever knowing how. There were, and are, also times when practice - repetition to get something just right, is very satisfying. It’s like a small problem I actually have some control over and can master - how sick is that?
Now performance - that made my knees shake - no joke - so badly that even as an adult I could push the pedal down and it would come up again because, as my mother would say, my knees were as weak as water.
As to the glare - when she’s really angry - oh and she can be, it’s almost a wicked looking caricature of the expression you see here. Like nothing else in life, teaching has given her great insight into her anger issues.
Susan, what a wonderful comment! I agree that I rarely act like practice and performance are the same thing, but the only audience that matters is paying attention to both.
That doesn’t mean I need to fret about my practice time. Or be lackadaisical about my performance time. I just need to keep my perspective directed upward no matter whether I’m writing a poem, a journal entry, a blog entry, or a blog comment.
God help me always be the same person doing the same thing.
I don’t feel forced into a particular interpretation. I enjoy hearing what (I think) is your interpretation and comparing it to mine . . .