Do you have poems or quotes about piano? Or music in general?
âIt is dreadful when something weighs on your mind, not to have a soul to unburden yourself to. You know what I mean. I tell my piano the things I used to tell you.â
Frédéric Chopin, in a letter
Mahmoud Darwish, Visible Music
âPurple sadness is the sadness of classical music and eggplant, the stroke of midnight, human organs, ports cut off for part of every year, words with too many meanings, incense, insomnia, and the crescent moon. It is the sadness of play money, and icebergs seen from a canoe. It is possible to dance to purple sadness, though slowly, as slowly as it takes to dig a pit to hold a sleeping giant. Purple sadness is pervasive, and goes deeper into the interior than the worldâs greatest nickel deposits, or any other sadness on earth. It is the sadness of depositories, and heels echoing down a long corridor, it is the sound of your mother closing the door at night, leaving you alone.â
Mary Ruefle, My Private Property
Emilie Buchwald, âMy Motherâs Musicâ
âMe alimento de mĂșsica y de agua negra. Soy tu niña calcinada por un sueño implacable.
My food is music and black waters. I am a girl burned by a ruthless sleep.â
Alejandra Pizarnik, from Extracting the Stone of Madness (tr. Yvette Siegert)
âAre we dreaming? Do I have only to pronounce a certain name, so that everything will come together, small miracles will happen, and I will be drawn deeper and deeper into an enchantment? The stars sing, it is a high whirring sound; I will not try to convince anyone, but we heard it that night.â
Christa Wolf, Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays (tr. Jan van Heurck)
âI had the idea that the worldâs so full of pain
it must sometimes make a kind of singing.
And that the sequence helps, as much as order helpsâ
First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing.â
Robert Haas, âFaint Musicâ
Michelangelo Antonioni, Red Desert, 1964
âSometimes he sang to himself. / Sometimes it was all he could do / to keep his hands steady,â
Danusha LamĂ©ris, from The Moons of August; âRemodelingâ
"They say a song can be a bridge, Ma. But I say itâs also the ground we stand on. And maybe we sing to keep ourselves from falling. Maybe we sing to keep ourselves."
Ocean Vuong, On Earth Weâre Briefly Gorgeous
Nikki Giovanni, from âThe Winter Stormâ
âAt first the solitude charmed me like a prelude, but so much music wounded me.â
Rainer Maria Rilke, from Music
âAnd in the depths of music, I didnât find the answer, / And again there was silence, and again the ghost     of summer.â
Anna Akhmatova, from Complete Poems; âStravinskyâs âJeremiahââ
âSo I abandoned music and its treachery, because the music was either too high or too low, never at the center, in the place of fusion and encounter. (You who were my only country: where should I look for you?â
Alejandra Pizarnik, from Extracting the Stone of Madness (tr. Yvette Siegert)
Hozier, from âTo Noise Making (Sing)â
Joanna Klink, from The Nightfields
âDoes the bird sing or does it not sing? Is it a symbol for what threatens to overwhelm our senses, of what will permanently transform and silence us? The bird is death: no wonder Keats imagines himself dying when he hears its song. No wonder he scratches out the speech of Laviniaâs tormentors: silence will come for him, as well as for her, and for us. Death attends our longing for the song. Sing, for you are voiceless. Sing, for it cannot matter. Sing, for soon no one will hear you again.â
Paisley Rekdal, from A Nightingale: A Gloss; The American Poetry Review, vol. 46, no. 05.
âAnd may nothing of me remain except the happiness of the one who knocked and for whom the door was opened. It is music, it is death. This is what I wanted to say,â
Alejandra Pizarnik, from Extracting the Stone of Madness; âThe Promises of Musicâ (tr. Yvette Siegert)
Emil Cioran, from âTears and Saintsâ, trans. Ilinca Zarifopol-Johnston
âIsn't there  always something we want / more than our own happiness? / A pull toward the Fall. / Haven't we all loved too much?â
Danusha LamĂ©ris, from The Moons of August; âApplesâ
ââŠand Iâm disgusted with dreams now â I want real things â live people to take hold of â to see â and to talk to â Music that makes holes in the sky ââ
Georgia OâKeeffe, in a letter to Anita Pollitzer
âAnd just as music is the space between notes, just as the stars are beautiful because of the space between them, just as the sun strikes raindrops at a certain angle and throws a prism of color across the skyâso the space where I exist, and want to keep existing, and to be quite frank I hope to die, is exactly this middle distance: where despair struck pure otherness and created something sublime.â
Donna Tartt, from The Goldfinch
âItâs turning thunder into grace, knowing sometimes the break in your heart is like the hole in the flute. Â
Sometimes itâs the place where the music comes through.â
Andrea Gibson, from The Madness Vase; âGospel Saltâ
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