FANTASIA IN X MINOR

It all began when at six years old

I sat at our piano

remorselessly picking out

the crotchets and minims of A Jolly Farmer.

Too lazy and untalented to continue on the instrument,

I nonetheless never abandoned my dream

of becoming a concert pianist.

The orchestra’s tuned up –

that exciting prelude to every concert

with its Schönbergian marching up and down the hill;

leader and conductor are clapped

onto the stage.

In the following hush I too

throw open the door and walk

purposefully, aware of but not crushed

by the weight of my genius

towards the crouching grand.

And I know my friends are in the Circle

scratching their heads: ‘But he can’t play! ’

I bow to the left, to the right,

let myself down on the stool by remote control,

flicking the tails back

allegro ma non troppo.

My hands hover over the keys,

the baton falls.

Stubby fingers perform feats

of precision bombing,

and the Bechstein sings above the orchestra.

My snub fingers grow, taper to aristocratic points,

shake dew and myrrh from their tips

in a rage of glissandos, legatos and tender sostenutos.

Bars Tchaikovsky slaved over

I execute in a careless Niagara of delight

while my hands, stiffened by the Viagra of dreams,

play on a thousand tympanums.

One last aerial bombardment.

I sit sweating on the stool in a pool of applause.

They stand, they stamp, they shout ‘BRAVO! BRAVO! ’

in their best Italian.

Why be plain old me

when I can be Artur Rubenstein