Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Behind Burckart Hall

Late at night one midnight dreary
In the practice rooms a-weary
Pondered the musician

o’er the pages of some lengthy score
With the curtain softly flapping,
As her foot continued tapping
Suddenly there came a rapping,

rapping on the crooked door
‘Tis the metronome a-tapping
In the meter of four-four
Merely this, and nothing more.

Ah distinctly I remember
It was in the late November
With recital in December and so much to do before
Frantically o’er scales bemoaning
Suddenly there came a groaning
And her practice now postponing, this new sound she did explore
‘Tis the radiator moaning
As if banging an encore
Merely this, and nothing more.

And the silken, sad uncertain
Rustling of each drab green curtain
Distracted her from fingerings that she could not ignore
All at once she heard a stomping
As if heavy tread was tromping
And she wondered at the clomping just out side the corridor
‘Tis security come stomping
Here to check for unlocked door
Merely this, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering,
Long she stood there wondering, fearing,
As she caught a glimpse of shadows she had never seen before
Then she heard a loud ker-plunk
That was followed by a thunk
And she quickly propped a music stand against the crooked door
Could it be she’d seen the monk
Said to haunt the second floor?
Ah, ‘twas nonsense, nothing more.


This poem is dedicated to all my music friends, to the few who fully understand this poem beacuse they've spent the countless hours in the little cubicle practice rooms.

1 comment:

gbfluteman said...

YOU HAVE WAY TOO MUCH TIME ON YOUR HANDS!!! almost literally ROFLOL (This is what happens when you spend hours blowing tons of air through a small hole in a double reed. I'm pretty sure being born without fully developed lungs doesn't explain ALL of the brain damage.... :-) )