Warming Up

June 3, 2011
By Anonymous

The beginning; silence
A soundless chasm, a lonely vacuum,
A black hole absorbing the mundane noises
The murmur of the crowd,
the rustle of programs.
The muffled steps
from the carpeted balcony above you.
The quiet words of the doorman, prefacing
the swish of the elegant gowns as they glide
over the ground, disguising
the clacking heels that give them away.
The squeal of doors and chairs
and children.
The polite apologies, the
“excuse me”s and “pardon me”s.
The old couple’s conversation,
carrying from two rows back.
Your ear forgets these things.
It leaves you in the still darkness.
Though your eyes say otherwise,
The world is unmoving.
It is black. Then,
A single note
dares to break the frozen moment,
and soars, echoing through the dark hall.
It plays, and the silent instruments
ache to join it.
Slowly, tentatively, the strings quiver beneath the bow.
The music can’t be dammed.
An explosion of sound rushes from the nothingness.
Vibrations with delusions of grandeur
weave together, running onwards and upwards,
flying, ringing, testing their strength.
The signal comes.
The chaos has served its purpose.
Footsteps of the man in black.
The rap of the baton.
Silence. Then; the beginning.

The author's comments:
This poem was written for my English class. We were required to select a sense and describe what the sense was most stimulated by through poetry.

I selected hearing, and endeavored to recreate the precious moments that preface the beginning of a symphony.

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