![]() I had recently inherited my mother’s Bechstein grand and would sit for hours at the piano and learn pieces slowly without worrying about judgement from the outside world. It’s funny that I’ve never been able to complete a manuscript of poems without music in it somewhere.Īfter a thirty-year hiatus, I returned to the piano with a sort of naïve enthusiasm, with nothing to prove and no ambition. I had the sensibility but not the skill for it. I grew up with pianos and harpsichords, and my father’s books of Romantic poetry, and horses. Although I studied piano at Cornell, I stopped playing when I realized I wasn’t cut out to be a professional musician. I recall her later years,Ĭresc., grad.ped. Trying to capture the spirit of her piano lessonsīefore the Second War-all major greens and goldsĪnd minor bronzes. I strain to read Mother’s phantom annotations: So little revealed in a single lifetime as one long hangover So someone could continue skating on some river.Ī brother who died but I still can’t get rid of, To catch in its groove and stop skipping, To the bathroom, head in hands over the bowl It has been a while since I felt the dull hammer I bring the Morton salt container to the table Hoarding secrets I am not supposed to know? Why do I want to be like my big brothers, ![]() Slammed doors, Mother’s tears and shushes. These crimson snowflakes are hardly a mess, “Poppy (Initial Stage),” Kristin Ducharme, watercolor pencil and ink on archival paper, 2021, Let Me Burn
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