Recital Poem by Daniel Brick

If I sit at the piano,
and make myself ready to play it
with simple gestures, perhaps
a dusting of the page of music and
a quick look at the last page,
and then I adjust the chair, once.
twice. Then complete stillness,
my hands folded in my lap,
my expression expectant,
will any of this draw the music
to me? Will it surge through the music-
saturated air of the auditorium, and
settle for a spell in my hands.
Wait, the length of a grace note,
and Stockhausen's Piano Piece V
descends from whatever empyrean space
it occupies and occupies my hands.
My fingers are taut with a knowledge
they have never known. My mind us empty,
it only listens. My fingers play
the first section of 60 quavers
in just 45 seconds, and immediately begin
the 104 quavers of the second section.
I am only dimly aware of playing. I want
to get up from the piano and kneel
at the edge of the stage, and cry out,
"Forgive me, friends of music, for deceiving
you. I am no pianist, no musician. I am just
one of you, but I so longed to make music.
Forgive me." But it is useless. I am still
at the piano. I am finishing the fifth section
of 84 quavers and launch - can this really be true? -
into the last section of 95 quavers... Piano Piece V
is over. I feel my fingers relax and my hands lose
a vital energy. But an audience is applauding, and
I hear a woman say to her male companion, "This was
better than Kontarsky's! " I bow deeply, and
leave the stage. I carry the moment of music
in my soul.


(Poet's Note: Should I have added a subtitle, "A Fantasy? "
Well, the technical data I found and borrowed from
THE MUSIC OF STOCKHAUSEN: AN INTRODUCTION by Jonathan
Harvey,1975. This poem is make-believe, but even a charade
brings us closer to the music we love, and the composer we
revere. Any requests for an encore? ... Any?)