Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue One

Ryan McLellan


Just found what sounded right under fingers,
no training or technique besides the ears, listening
to lectures from lunatics who heard whole orchestras
through dead ear drums; always wanted lessons
and mamma said "Even if I don't get you the
lessons' I'll definitely get you the keyboard so
you can teach yourself," and she led me on
again and I was too stubborn or stupid to just
get either for myself; but the sound was there
in the box, the mystical classical tones and tinkles,
they found their way into my head while in
a soundproof booth with the door open, songs
meandered out the wrists and finger-tips while
killing time on graduation day, the keys sent signals
over the synapse strings and slow blues bruises
with a side of scrappy song were the products of
twenty minutes of experimentation; smiling each time
the chord sounded just a bit better, refusing to curse
even though I wanted to when I messed up, no reason
to while my foot was on the pedal and the note held
strong as long as I wanted it to; begging me to try
one more time, one more take, one more musical mess—
around; just find whatever sounds right to the ear, the heart,
the head … whatever feels right under your fingers—