Sometimes able, hands of mine
could never master
minor keys;
my hands were way
too playful, fingertips on ivory
frightened stiffed
when touching blackness felt
in ebony
that only ink could tell, but
I pretended, faked
in harmonies of lying hands,
a music void of dissonance.
While under skin
melancholy waited
to be born
from poetry.
Hands by Robert Silvers
Today Mish is our guest at dVerse Poetics prompting us to write about hands, and I started to think about why I could never learn to play the piano.
March 15, 2017
Björn Rudbergs writings 
Yes, sometimes we express ourselves in different ways in other media.
Wonderful how you took the act of learning to play piano and translated it into your poetry.
Your final line is killer, brother; lying hands indeed–giving me several ideas of where to go with my poetic effort today.
Good metaphors, Bjorn. I like the idea of hands being too playful to master some of the piano keys. Well done. 🙂 — Suzanne
I too admire the ending lines Bjorn ~ Your hands are indeed made for melancholy, waiting to be born as poetry ~ Love also the contrast of ivory with ebony ~
Did you ever see me invent the word “melon Collie”? That was ages ago. Not sure you caught it, though. I love that word, “melancholy,” even though it’s sad.
I think you can change something sad into something giggly in a few seconds — if you really want to.
You already have my notes on the poem.
Oh just like Smashing Pumpkins: “Mellon Collie and the infinite sadness”…https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFEftsKAUvY
So I didn’t invent that??? Well crap. You just burst my bubble. 😛
🙂 There is a small difference between Melon and Mellon…
Phew! 😉 I’d better go give it a listen soon, just to see what kind of difference we’re working with here; but for now, I’ve got a young man banging on his bedroom door upstairs, begging for me to come nurse him down for a nap already. So the music will have to wait a bit.
Hands must find their way too. My mother was a piano teacher so for me it was inevitable that I play. Fortunately, my hands agreed, but not so much now. I enjoyed this line “I pretended, faked
in harmonies of lying hands”. Reminded me of those students sent to my mother for lessons (in our home), when their hands were clearly meant for other adventures.
hummmmmm….lying hands? I guess it could be so?
Nicely done and unexpected.
Like that Bjorn …. isn’t interesting how creative people always have that dark desire to excel in another format …. mine is painting! Piano may be beyond you, but your poetry delivers music of another sort. Great write.
What a wonderful take on this prompt … of course, hands figure so prominently in playing any instrument but especially, it seems, when playing the piano. A truly lovely poem.
http://whenthepenbleeds.blogspot.ca/2016/03/hand-in-hand.html
Sadly, it was the clarinet, for me. Never could master the fingering of the holes. But, given a pen or clay, now that’s another story. Thanks for sharing, Bjorn, this wonderful poem.
I love those last couple of lines… of poetry waiting to be born, somewhere below the surface of it all.
Lovely words musical poetry.
You do have a way with the melancholy words
Such wonderful use of metaphors 🙂
You can definitely play a haunting melody in poetry…no lying!
More music in your words than you know, Bjorn! You resonate!
Ha, Bjorn….I took piano lessons too, but really played more mechanically than musically. Indeed a person can play many different melodies in poetry…however the mood strikes!
Yeah, zero musical talent in these paws, or artistic, or mechanical…but words…yeah, words are good.
Very clever. I could relate to this because I always wanted to play piano but was never any good. Peace, Linda
It’s tough to fake it when your hearts just not in it. So glad those hands of yours found their calling, Bjorn.
Ah…it’s been too long since I’ve sat at a piano. Unlike you, though, my fingers seemed to migrate to the rich sounds of minor keys.
I kayak instead of play basketball. We all find our niches.
I love the black keys — they make the white seem so bland.
The piano made my other instruments start to breathe.
Writing poetry has taught me much about writers.
The contrasting black and white staring back can be most intimidating. Very true Bjorn!
Hank
So you’re a failed musician? That’s a good thing because it made you an excellent poet Bjorn!
Interesting play with words, and playing piano! I played violin for years, but never understood how anyone could use both hands on the piano to play beautiful music. As others have said, you play your poems like lovely serenades!
So you can’t tinkle, but you can certainly pull out the right notes for poetry 🙂
Oh, you must have had a peek at my childhood. This brought back memories of sitting beside my mother on the piano bench while she tried to teach me to play.
I’m sorry that you missed out on the joy of bringing music from the inanimate keys of a piano.
Excellent write, I know this trepidation – exasperation.. For me it was the flute in middle school. Such a beautiful instrument, but it could not convey what I wanted the way words could.
Hands that like to play, but are too wild for piano keys 🙂
In a family of 4 girls, i am the one ungifted of any musical talent. Except for the toe-tapping and hand clapping. Your talent for writing is always mesmerizing….
I can relate to this. Well-constructed, in a relaxed way … which underscores your point, perfectly, Wonderfully worded, without coming across as being over-thought … a “know thyself” moral-of-the-story presented in a delightful way.