His fingers clammy, wet with fearful nervousness;
his crime, his art; his weapon, digits of his hand;
a criminal of highest calibre and brand,
successful more than always – powerful – no less.
His method, less than clear; his target, everyone.
His mind, complex and dark; his pleas, his twisted fun.
He meets the floor, still greeted by the silent night.
The keys are his; the audience applauds and waits.
His humble bow is perfect, elegance his bait.
And then, in shock, we see his violent, bloody fight,
his sheer expressive force invading sound and sight.
Now no one sees his coldness, hidden from his face,
which lets whatever ambience he wants to make
exist and dazzle, seizing victims by the mind.
Have to hear the story behind this one!
ReplyDeleteI like it!
This was written at the December dinner party that inspired the previous depressing sonnet, but basically at my piano lesson, my teacher was talking about this one guy who wanted to be one of those tenors that "open their mouths and beauty comes out, with eyes closed, enjoying the moment". She and I firmly believe this doesn't happen - didn't he ever hear of PERFORMANCE NERVES?! Everyone has them - it's hiding them and unselfishly creating the desired atmosphere for the audience that makes you a great [classical] performer.
ReplyDelete(By the way...the "alarm" incident has inspired the criminal metaphor of the performer....)