In terms of poetry, here is a mediocre piece that I wrote when listening to Chopin's Funeral March (aka Piano Sonata No.2 Bb-minor Op.35)
Chopin’s Funeral March
A stroke of key and skull in hand,
his worn piano screams to cease.
The melancholy march birrs on
to strings that hum for sweet decease.
His smashing force upon the keys,
and hair just like a flow’s release.
His hands now stroke upon them soft,
it only ends in masterpiece.
His sweating grip and frenzied stare
upon his keys—he’s not prepared
to be a part of harmony.
A thoughtful inspiration flared,
and all his essence filled the room
until his starved and gasping breath.
Exquisite sounds of ringing booms,
and all this done, about some death.