The Piano Demolition Display

At the County Show,
four doughty men with hammers gloves and goggles
stand prepared in dramatic pose.
At blare of klaxon the smash begins.
First, the wooden case, thin veneer of walnut
and fretwork, too delicate for steely lumps on poles,
over-stretched with clumsy wasted force. The men pause,
baffled by their unsubtle strength, then gang up on
the ivory splinters of long-dead elephants
but, again, the unspectacular crush
of weak, glued artefact
and the mob laughs at the sounds struck
– a mocking, clownish disharmony.
Frazzled now and sweaty, the men turn to
the exposed frame of strings,
the naked heart of piano;
a solid over-strung under-damper Bechstein.
At last the men exult!
This is man's work.
Iron on iron. Crash!
There go the F-sharps and Gs and high Cs;
augmented fifths, A-minor chords, the last
the piano will ever play
and she gasps as the cast metal cracks.
Oh this is worse, far worse
than the innocent pounding of naughty children.
A whiplash of B curls and cuts a chest,
the man yells, takes it out on the pedals
while the others finish her off.
The brass twinkles in the sun. The crowd claps.
The Tannoy announces next the judging of the bulls.

Clive Donovan

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Clive Donovan would be pleased to hear them