Piano Poetry - translation

[Farrell]

Thanks for the translation Robert. I guess I'm just not much of a poet. Not realizing it had anything to do with pianos, I was soooo tempted to write a snotty post about being sick of non-piano poetry and to keep this stuff off the list, bla, bla, bla. But now I see the light! Cute, very cute.

(I'm glad I exercised restraint - it can be a good thing)

Terry Farrell
  
----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Robert Goodale" <rrg@unlv.edu>
To: "Pianotech" <pianotech@ptg.org>
Sent: Friday, March 21, 2003 1:43 AM
Subject: Piano Poetry - translation


> This is interesting.  I like it, though I'm not entirely sure what it means.  Keep your day job, but I think your nights should be devoted >  to the coffee house circuit.  And while we're waiting for word of your successes to the beat of the bongo, how about a
>  translation??? 
>
> Dave Stahl
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I knew it would come down to this.  Okay, for those who never had a poetry class, didn't pay attention if you did, or are just clouded by my warped sense of logic, here is the translation:

Betsy's Cry
By Rob Goodale, RPT

"Betsy Ross" is arguably among those on the top ten worst piano list.

She cries for an echo, a ghost.
History's crude humor, the final insult.

Meaning a piano with a historic reference would be expected to be much more.  Instead it is a wannabe, a "ghost" of the real thing.

Fleece the fair passed by,
Weak from the head, soft but without purpose.

Fleece = felt.  Those who have ever been to a state fair know that livestock is judged for quality and awards are given.  The quality of the felt is so poor that the sheep from which it came would have never placed.  The hammers also lack tension and are too soft for any reasonable tone quality.

Should have been the box from which she came.
The most critical was not rejected, begs for more.

The quality of the materials, i.e. wood used in the case construction, action, and so on would have been more useful in building a piano shipping crate rather than the piano itself.

Newton's dream, gravity without weight.
Her input loose, compromises to the side.

Newton, as in "Sir Isaac".  The keys have no weights and are uneven.  "Input" = keys.  Poor quality felt was used and with no key buttons, thus much wobble. 

Not of wood, an unnatural element.
Broken and crumbled, her children now silent.

Broken plastic elbows.  The "children" i.e. "notes" are no longer able to play.

Slips away, her voice lost to friction and time.
The steel now stolen, the gift lost.

Loose tuning pins, the "steel", (strings), no longer maintain pitch.

The savior is called and discriminates.
Hours go by, she remains silent but hopeful.

The pianotech arrives!  He begins his work... good luck!

Moment of truth, will she breath?
She coughs and sighs, tired eyes open.

At last the piano will play again though it still remains a lousy excuse of a piano.

Exhausted and regret, the servant collects.
The apprentice now sits and begins self torture.

The poor piano tech now tired from working on this PSO, collects his bill.  Then the misguided kid sits at the piano to practice on this "thing".


Think in metaphor boys and girls, think in metaphor!