The opening lines of the drinks slapped on the piano "quivering her shut heart" are a foreshadowing of the "unplayed music of the close". My siblings and I grew up practicing on an acoustic piano. But sometimes we experimented with it too. We discovered if you pushed down the damper/sustain pedal sudden and hard, all the strings would quiver in a faint echoing whisper of notes. There was something magical about the sound, a brief vision of the piano's full potential.
"shut heart" is perfect. It made the closed piano come alive for me because only something once alive can be dead and coffined.
A poetry question for you from a poetry reading novice: after reading that perfectly placed and worded phrase, "shut heart," it was hard for me to appreciate what came next as much as I'd hoped. I couldn't get the image out of my head.
If a phrase or a word or a line stands out in poem, what does it do the rest of the poem?
Thank you, David. It's an intriguing question you ask, to which, I fear, I don't really have an answer. My initial suggestion would be to read the poem again or read it aloud to see if it will rebalance, as it were. Rona has helpfully picked on another phrase that really stood out for to her, the ship "smuggling its soul." Perhaps you could "re-centre" your attention by focusing on another phrase like that one? Sometimes a phrase or image will stand out for us on first reading and be the main attraction. But as you'll know from your reading of Proust, re-reading a passage later will often yield other insights or highlights.
But perhaps a more qualified critic of poetry than me can help us out?
This is wonderful, Jeffrey - I'm struck by the bookends of the green piano's quivering shut heart, perhaps its strings vibrating from the glasses slapped, and the "unplayed music" of the poet's beating heart. Such a joy - sometimes I just need to a little boost for a poem to open up. :)
Great observations about the unexpected uses of verbs, the way they drive the poem forward and carry the narrative. “The green piano quivering its shut heart” is not mindless or passive in the cacophony of the pub. The drinks slap, an assault on a living thing. Maybe it’s the poet herself, the one color in a poem full of monotones. And yes, the little ship “smuggling its soul.” The use of “witches” as a verb is brilliant. Some enchanted or cursed evening, as a romantic possibility, or the opposite. “Crisping.” And “slithering!” Why am I thinking of apples and snakes? So much is hidden, kept secret from the crowd, and - I’d guess - from the lover who, for whatever reason, doesn’t show. I don’t see it as a humiliation. There’s too much self-awareness and dignity. Maybe she’s seen the reality behind temptation, or someone didn’t read the cues, or chose to ignore them. Who knows. I’m just a reader.
Thank you, Jeffrey, for introducing us to this wonderful poet.
Thank you for your beautiful reflections on the poem, Mary! You've made me see it in different ways, as an even richer work than I thought. Your reading is on a par with your fabulous writing!
Oh, Jeffrey, you’re too kind! I was just about to respond again, chastising myself for analyzing the joy out of this lovely poem. It’s so nuanced. I wanted to honor that, and I’m not sure I did. I can see why you respect and admire her. Thank you for bringing us the gift of Carol.
I feel so grateful for your generosity towards my writing. I’ve kept it alive all these years, but genuinely despaired that I could flourish at it. Your belief in me means everything.
The title, Unplayed Music, says it all. But as I read the poem, what strikes me is that every line is exquisite on its own, and that is damn fine writing.
I was struck by the distances between those who had unplayed music to play; and those who were also present, noisily, in the background. An arm was flung (we don’t know whose?) and there are a lot of loud voices but they increase a sense of isolation. I loved the movement from inside the tavern to outside… and then into a small room.
What an inventive poet. The snow “crisping and slithering.” And yes, her use of “witches” as a verb. I also like the little ship “smuggling its soul,” the sense of treasure illicitly concealed. Beautiful find and post, Jeffrey.
Wonderful poem, Jeffrey. Thanks for sharing it. I knew of Rumens just a little, from the Guardian column but didn't know this poem. Yes, to the many who comment on the poem's strikingly vivid verbs.
I was poised to pose a question about a single word, when I read Mary Roblyn cite the "green piano quivering its shut heart.” The word I was going to question is a "her" that appears in the poem's second line rather than that "its." That adds to my questions, but I couldn't find the poem anywhere else online but here to perform a counter check. Can you shed any light?
A typically astute observation, Jay! It's definitely “her” in the published version that I have (I just checked!). Perhaps Rumens is foreshadowing the mention of ship later on, which would be a “she”. Or perhaps there's a suggestion of an identification between the piano and the (female) speaker? What do you think is going on?
Thank you for getting me to look again at this detail, which adds to the richness of my experience of the poem.
When I first read the lines, I took the "her," not knowing what was to come, as a female in the poem. But soon enough, the speaker is addressing a "you," so that complicated that first thought. It occurred to me that Mary Roblyn, perhaps, wrote "it" because she was unconsciously accommodating her reading that the piano had been personified. And, indeed, though none else receives a human pronoun, the tavern "winks" and has a "soul," the snow slithers and "witches," the landscape "gathers" and has a "secret." So I'd say, for now at least, that the poem and the ultimately unfulfilled connection between the speaker and "you" are vivified by the life in the atmosphere surrounding them, in which the music is nonetheless left unheard.
Love this description of assonance —> consonance and it’s effect here! “But as the musical final line moves from the repeated soft and round “o” sounds of “over,” "snow,” and “own” to the harder edge of the “t” sounds in “heart” and “beating,” I sense the speaker not only steeling herself for living with this disappointment but also beginning to celebrate her solitude.”
Always a pleasure to read literature through your eyes, Jeffrey!
I like the play of mirrors: "I watch you watching me. All else is blindness." This is the witchery of love, or rather the blindness of a passionate first encounter, when the person in front of you dazzles you (in the poem with 'clouds of words'), and there is an idealisation of the moment, often fuelled by drinks and the expectations of an unrestrained beating heart.
Outside of that warm, idealised scene in the tavern, all paths lead to the coldness of a beautiful but farewell landscape with "a few words", and the grey of a room returning to solitude.
The 'unplayed music' is that silence, the memory that is evoked and repeated all night like an obsessive mantra of what was and what could have been. There is much frustration and beauty, with a touch of irony: as in the poem itself, everyone has their own reading. The poetic voice thought she heard the same music as his/her interlocutor... and it wasn't so. In the end, the silent music that underpins this whole bittersweet experience is the poem itself, to our fortune as readers.
The opening lines of the drinks slapped on the piano "quivering her shut heart" are a foreshadowing of the "unplayed music of the close". My siblings and I grew up practicing on an acoustic piano. But sometimes we experimented with it too. We discovered if you pushed down the damper/sustain pedal sudden and hard, all the strings would quiver in a faint echoing whisper of notes. There was something magical about the sound, a brief vision of the piano's full potential.
Thank you for that lovely comment and for sharing that story about the magic of pianos.
Thanks Jeffrey for introducing me to this poet.
"shut heart" is perfect. It made the closed piano come alive for me because only something once alive can be dead and coffined.
A poetry question for you from a poetry reading novice: after reading that perfectly placed and worded phrase, "shut heart," it was hard for me to appreciate what came next as much as I'd hoped. I couldn't get the image out of my head.
If a phrase or a word or a line stands out in poem, what does it do the rest of the poem?
Thank you, David. It's an intriguing question you ask, to which, I fear, I don't really have an answer. My initial suggestion would be to read the poem again or read it aloud to see if it will rebalance, as it were. Rona has helpfully picked on another phrase that really stood out for to her, the ship "smuggling its soul." Perhaps you could "re-centre" your attention by focusing on another phrase like that one? Sometimes a phrase or image will stand out for us on first reading and be the main attraction. But as you'll know from your reading of Proust, re-reading a passage later will often yield other insights or highlights.
But perhaps a more qualified critic of poetry than me can help us out?
This is wonderful, Jeffrey - I'm struck by the bookends of the green piano's quivering shut heart, perhaps its strings vibrating from the glasses slapped, and the "unplayed music" of the poet's beating heart. Such a joy - sometimes I just need to a little boost for a poem to open up. :)
Beautifully put, Troy. Your soul seems to vibrate at the frequency of the poem.
Exquisite, and unknown to me - thank you.
I'm very glad you liked it!
Great observations about the unexpected uses of verbs, the way they drive the poem forward and carry the narrative. “The green piano quivering its shut heart” is not mindless or passive in the cacophony of the pub. The drinks slap, an assault on a living thing. Maybe it’s the poet herself, the one color in a poem full of monotones. And yes, the little ship “smuggling its soul.” The use of “witches” as a verb is brilliant. Some enchanted or cursed evening, as a romantic possibility, or the opposite. “Crisping.” And “slithering!” Why am I thinking of apples and snakes? So much is hidden, kept secret from the crowd, and - I’d guess - from the lover who, for whatever reason, doesn’t show. I don’t see it as a humiliation. There’s too much self-awareness and dignity. Maybe she’s seen the reality behind temptation, or someone didn’t read the cues, or chose to ignore them. Who knows. I’m just a reader.
Thank you, Jeffrey, for introducing us to this wonderful poet.
Thank you for your beautiful reflections on the poem, Mary! You've made me see it in different ways, as an even richer work than I thought. Your reading is on a par with your fabulous writing!
Oh, Jeffrey, you’re too kind! I was just about to respond again, chastising myself for analyzing the joy out of this lovely poem. It’s so nuanced. I wanted to honor that, and I’m not sure I did. I can see why you respect and admire her. Thank you for bringing us the gift of Carol.
I feel so grateful for your generosity towards my writing. I’ve kept it alive all these years, but genuinely despaired that I could flourish at it. Your belief in me means everything.
Your writing is a wonderful gift to your readers!
The title, Unplayed Music, says it all. But as I read the poem, what strikes me is that every line is exquisite on its own, and that is damn fine writing.
Nicely said, Lani!
I was struck by the distances between those who had unplayed music to play; and those who were also present, noisily, in the background. An arm was flung (we don’t know whose?) and there are a lot of loud voices but they increase a sense of isolation. I loved the movement from inside the tavern to outside… and then into a small room.
Thank you for that perspective on the poem, Emma! Yes those movements between different spaces seem significant, don't they?
They do... and eventually, to a quiet space.
What an inventive poet. The snow “crisping and slithering.” And yes, her use of “witches” as a verb. I also like the little ship “smuggling its soul,” the sense of treasure illicitly concealed. Beautiful find and post, Jeffrey.
Thank you, Rona. I'm really glad you enjoyed Carol Rumens' poem.
Wonderful poem, Jeffrey. Thanks for sharing it. I knew of Rumens just a little, from the Guardian column but didn't know this poem. Yes, to the many who comment on the poem's strikingly vivid verbs.
I was poised to pose a question about a single word, when I read Mary Roblyn cite the "green piano quivering its shut heart.” The word I was going to question is a "her" that appears in the poem's second line rather than that "its." That adds to my questions, but I couldn't find the poem anywhere else online but here to perform a counter check. Can you shed any light?
A typically astute observation, Jay! It's definitely “her” in the published version that I have (I just checked!). Perhaps Rumens is foreshadowing the mention of ship later on, which would be a “she”. Or perhaps there's a suggestion of an identification between the piano and the (female) speaker? What do you think is going on?
Thank you for getting me to look again at this detail, which adds to the richness of my experience of the poem.
When I first read the lines, I took the "her," not knowing what was to come, as a female in the poem. But soon enough, the speaker is addressing a "you," so that complicated that first thought. It occurred to me that Mary Roblyn, perhaps, wrote "it" because she was unconsciously accommodating her reading that the piano had been personified. And, indeed, though none else receives a human pronoun, the tavern "winks" and has a "soul," the snow slithers and "witches," the landscape "gathers" and has a "secret." So I'd say, for now at least, that the poem and the ultimately unfulfilled connection between the speaker and "you" are vivified by the life in the atmosphere surrounding them, in which the music is nonetheless left unheard.
I had never heard of Rumens before this post and so thank you for enlightening me to her work. It is much appreciated :)
Thank you for reading, Michael!
Wonderful poem. Discovered this post via Kate's note. Happy that I did!
I’m so glad that you found it and liked it Alexander!
Such a beautiful poem--grateful to be introduced to her work.
So glad you liked, it, Freya!
Love this description of assonance —> consonance and it’s effect here! “But as the musical final line moves from the repeated soft and round “o” sounds of “over,” "snow,” and “own” to the harder edge of the “t” sounds in “heart” and “beating,” I sense the speaker not only steeling herself for living with this disappointment but also beginning to celebrate her solitude.”
Always a pleasure to read literature through your eyes, Jeffrey!
Thanks, Kate! I'm so grateful to have you as a reader.
The words of “Unplayed Music”entered my heart and rippled throughout my body. What more could I ask for ?
Thank you for your comment, Maureen! Indeed, no poet could ask for a better reader than you!
If I can achieve that as a reader, I feel very honoured ! Thank you, Jeffrey.
I like the play of mirrors: "I watch you watching me. All else is blindness." This is the witchery of love, or rather the blindness of a passionate first encounter, when the person in front of you dazzles you (in the poem with 'clouds of words'), and there is an idealisation of the moment, often fuelled by drinks and the expectations of an unrestrained beating heart.
Outside of that warm, idealised scene in the tavern, all paths lead to the coldness of a beautiful but farewell landscape with "a few words", and the grey of a room returning to solitude.
The 'unplayed music' is that silence, the memory that is evoked and repeated all night like an obsessive mantra of what was and what could have been. There is much frustration and beauty, with a touch of irony: as in the poem itself, everyone has their own reading. The poetic voice thought she heard the same music as his/her interlocutor... and it wasn't so. In the end, the silent music that underpins this whole bittersweet experience is the poem itself, to our fortune as readers.
Thanks for sharing
That's a beautiful reflection on the poem, Rafa! You have added a touch of magic of your own. Thank you!
I think so.