Dranoff Logo 2011


Dear Gabriele,

The Chinese New Year festival began yesterday. For the next several weeks  celebrates the end of winter and  the arrival of the spring season while honoring deities, ancestors and family ties.

2023 is the year of the rabbit, a symbol of longevity, peace, and prosperity in Chinese culture; it is predicted to be a year of hope.  So today, we chose a piece of music performed by very young musicians –  our future. 


Gabriele Fiorentino


The Dranoff2 Piano

Piano Slam

Felix Mendelssohn

CONCERTO for 2 PIANOS in E major, 1st movement

Duo Ping and Ting


The Hong Kong Children's Symphony Orchestra

Ping and Ting are laureates of the 2013 Dranoff International 2 PianoCompetition


by  Lynda Hull

The dragon is in the street dancing beneath windows

   pasted with colored squares, past the man

who leans into the phone booth’s red pagoda, past

   crates of doves and roosters veiled

until dawn. Fireworks complicate the streets

   with sulphur as people exchange gold

and silver foil, money to appease ghosts

   who linger, needy even in death. I am

almost invisible. Hands could pass through me

   effortlessly. This is how it is

to be so alien that my name falls from me, grows

   untranslatable as the shop signs,

the odors of ginseng and black fungus that idle

   in the stairwell, the corridor where

the doors are blue months ajar. Hands

   gesture in the smoke, the partial moon

of a face. For hours the soft numeric

   click of mah-jongg tiles drifts

down the hallway where languid Mai trails

   her musk of sex and nicotine.

There is no grief in this, only the old year

   consuming itself, the door knob blazing

in my hand beneath the lightbulb’s electric jewel.

   Between voices and fireworks

wind works bricks to dust—hush, hush

   no language I want to learn. I can touch

the sill worn by hands I’ll never know

   in this room with its low table

where I brew chrysanthemum tea. The sign

   for Jade Palace sheds green corollas

on the floor. It’s dangerous to stand here

   in the chastening glow, darkening

my eyes in the mirror with the gulf of the rest

   of my life widening away from me, waiting

for the man I married to pass beneath

   the sign of the building, to climb

the five flights and say his Chinese name for me.

   He’ll rise up out of the puzzling streets

where men pass bottles of rice liquor, where

   the new year is liquor, the black bottle

the whole district is waiting for, like

   some benevolent arrest—the moment

when men and women turn to each other and dissolve

   each bad bet, every sly mischance,

the dalliance of hands. They turn in lamplight

   the way I turn now. Wai Min is in the doorway.

He brings fish. He brings lotus root.

   He brings me ghost money.


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