Sunday, March 15, 2009

The Violin


Leaning forward we attend -
someone's reading again.

Weight shifts in a chair, papers rustle,
but words, now, are rising in the air
with the cadence of song
as the long, smooth bowing of the lines cries.

A bird arrives on the windowsill outside
as the mood shifts
and staccato phrases hammer and jump
out from the poet's voice

in plucked trills
that tear the blood from our skin.
Our confused hearts
are left, wired, in the long silence of after.

I notice, in the corner, an old violin.
It's missing one string
and hasn't been played, it seems, for years.
It's fine, curved woodwork, though,

carves a solid shape in the air.
Eventually someone moves, there's a cough,
the bird leaves, and our hearts
pick up their beats again. Conversations start.

It's only after we've gone
that the violin
falls on its side,
and a soft, reverberant sound

caresses the air.


14 October 08

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