Hands can be eloquent, though sometimes they
Mislead us utterly in what they say.
I have seen slender fingered, candle white
Supple & fluent hands that many might
Call ‘sensitive’, ‘a pianist’s hands’, ‘artistic’;
But these were owned by someone mean, sadistic,
Hostile to art, a gross materialist.
I know another man, fine pianist,
Whose powerful, sausage fingered, meaty fists
Should hang from goalkeeper’s or butcher’s wrists,
Yet on the gleaming keys these hands could wake
Ghosts of drowned nightingales in starry lakes.
I know a fighter too, fast welterweight,
Whose punches could crush bone & could create
Sudden shattered galaxies in the head,
Yet from his hands alone you might have said
That he was not unusually strong,
For they were hairless, pale, the fingers long.
So many hands will tell us lies, but I
Have never known old labouring men’s deny
Their simple character: these never lie.
For years they have manhandled spade or hook,
Shovel, axe or pick until they look
Like weathered tools.
Although this rings true - my piano teacher had very fat (& hairy) fingers, I do not think I could ever fall in love with a man who did not have long supple slender pianist's fingers.
In the second half of the poem Scannell goes on to be a tad quaintly romantic about the hands of labouring men.
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