Chopin Week
.
A piece like Chopin's first ballad, you can't play it : you must live it.
Empty the carverns of your being and breathe, breathe the rhythm of the melody.
Break the stiff window pane stuck through your head.
Open the score, brush the self away.
Cleanse the mind from the network of thoughts skating on its surface : only the music matters.
Each note must be felt, each note must be sung. A body is but a string of flesh vibrating and pulsating, ebbing and flowing with the breath, the breath of the melody.
When I play next Saturday, I must rise and leave my self on the bench, carefully folded like a clean handkerchief. I will rise and ripple with panic, I will rise with pounding heart and cotton-feet. But when I sit and touch the piano, I will be a blank flag flapping for one wind, only one wind : the crystal breath of Chopin's ballad.
A piece like Chopin's first ballad, you can't play it : you must live it.
Empty the carverns of your being and breathe, breathe the rhythm of the melody.
Break the stiff window pane stuck through your head.
Open the score, brush the self away.
Cleanse the mind from the network of thoughts skating on its surface : only the music matters.
Each note must be felt, each note must be sung. A body is but a string of flesh vibrating and pulsating, ebbing and flowing with the breath, the breath of the melody.
When I play next Saturday, I must rise and leave my self on the bench, carefully folded like a clean handkerchief. I will rise and ripple with panic, I will rise with pounding heart and cotton-feet. But when I sit and touch the piano, I will be a blank flag flapping for one wind, only one wind : the crystal breath of Chopin's ballad.
Efnisorð: music
posted by transparency @ 9:32 e.h.
0 comments
