POEMS ABOUT VIOLINS AND VIOLINISTS
BY WELL-KNOWN POETS
The Violinist
Chayym Zeldis, from Epic
We live on the 2nd floor too,
only at the opposite end of the building,
in the rear.
My brother and I share the Sherman Avenue bedroom,
through whose windows we one morning see
sixty-foot elms sailing WHAM! into the sky like toothpicks,
automobiles turtle-flipping WHOOSH! onto their backs,
telephone-poles dragging down CRASH! cables as they fall
in the Great Hurricane of '40 that tears up the East Coast.
My parents sleep (maybe even dream, who's to say?)
in the other bedroom whose low-silled windows
look out on a dark row of garage-rooftops.
We have no living-room, like the Mazers do,
our one & only radio, with green Cyclops-eye and
black-slit of pupil that expands & contracts as you hunt
for a station, rests preeminently
on a mahogany end-table in my parents' room.
When he's at home, my father exercises Absolute Control,
"listening-in" to the News every hour on the hour,
forbidding us to "make even a peep" while it's on.
My parents' room is also the concert-hall where,
egg-bald, bird-framed, hollow-chested, spindly-legged,
in undershirt and boxer-shorts (fly always open,)
eye-glasses glinting like holy-wafers,
sweat crawling down his forehead,
muscles taut as the strings of his fiddle,
music-stand before him
supplying the Rimsky-Korsakov, Bizet, Tschaikovsky et al.,
he plays "pieces" for himself (and the Angel-Hosts-On-High.)
In his twenties, my Pa leads two (count 'em!) orchestras:
"The Marimba Syncopators" and "The Dixie Jazz-band".
He plays Jewish weddings and bar-mitzvahs,
but, as he tells us mournfully, "Radio's pushed me out..."
My mother says that if she hadn't gone to a friend's
party and met him playing there, she'd have been
spared her "years of misery:"
She laughs when she tells the story:
but we believe
she means it.
Every damn word.
Twosome
Chayym Zeldis
The violin
kept its notes
to itself
like birds
in a cage...
The man
kept his heart
to himself
like a hound
on a leash...
Then
one day
the man
left the room
where he slept
and walked
into the room
where the violin
rested...
He picked up
the bow
lifted the violin
cradled it in
the hollow of
a shoulder,
and played...
The notes
were freed.
So was his
heart.
The Lord's Fiddle
Chayym Zeldis
Last night
I dreamed that God
decided He'd learn
to play the fiddle.
But there was none
to be found in heaven,
so He entered the
Great Vault behind the
cloud-bank,
in which reposed holy treasures,
such as the Tablets of the Law,
Aaron's rod,
Moses' wicker-basket,
Elijah's brand,
David's harp,
Yael's dagger
inter alia.
Taking a good sum of
cash (U.S. dollars are
always good)God departed
for earth.
But to His surprise,
He discovered that nowhere
was there a single fiddle
for sale.
The stores were empty:
it seemed that
everyone on the planet
was fiddling.
So He tried to borrow one.
But Paganini, Heifetz and
Menuhin were all dead,
and those alive - even the
jolly, good-natured Perlman -
refused to lend Him theirs.
"Never lend anyone your fiddle,
or your car, or your toothbrush,"
they told Him.
("Or your wife,"
murmured God.)
But then
an old Minskener
(who in 1907 emigrated
from Czar Nicolai's Russia
to NYC)
in a cubby-hole of a store
down on the Lower East Side
of Manhattan,
called out that he had
one fit fiddle left,
and would sell it to God
if He promised to play
lively tunes.
Back in heaven, though,
God couldn't find anyone
to teach him.
A wizened, little Angel
who'd played
backgammon with Abraham,
chess with Solomon,
pick-up-sticks with Gideon,
solitaire with Job,
explained that all the
famous violinists and teachers
no longer had any connection
to fiddling.
"You see," said the Angel,
"the violin has nothing to do
with heaven -
only with the pain of earth."
That was it.
So God took his fiddle -
glowing like a ruby
in the navel of the sky,
silent as a mute who knows
the secrets of the universe
but cannotutter a word of them -
to the Great Vault behind the
cloud-blank,
blessed it
and kissed it
and locked it away
along withMiriam's timbrel,
Samson's jawbone,
Joseph's vari-colored coat,
Jacob's ladder,
and the single pebble
that - crooning like
a shepherd's psalm -
put Goliath
to sleep.
Jacky, come give me thy fiddle
Anonymous
Jacky, come give me thy fiddle,
If ever thou mean to thrive.
Nay, I'll not give my fiddle
To any man alive.
If I should give my fiddle,
They'll think that I'm gone mad,
For many a joyful day
My fiddle and I have had.
The Old Violin
Maurice Francis Egan
Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust,
Like some great thought on a forgotten page;
The soul of music cannot fade or rust, -
The voice within it stronger grows with age;
Its strings and bow are only trifling things -
A master-touch! - its sweet soul wakes and sings.
He'd Nothing but His Violin
Mary Kyle Dallas
He'd nothing but his violin,
I'd nothing but my song,
But we were wed when skies were blue
And summer days were long;
And when we rested by the hedge,
The robins came and told
How they had dared to woo and win,
When early Spring was cold.
We sometimes supped on dew-berries,
Or slept among the hay,
But oft the farmers' wives at eve
Came out to hear us play;
The rare old songs, the dear old tunes, -
We could not starve for long
While my man had his violin,
And I my sweet love-song.
On Sivori's Violin
Frances Sargent Osgood
A dryad's home was once the tree
From which they carved this wondrous toy,
Who chanted lays of love and glee,
Till every leaflet thrilled with joy.
But when the tempest laid it low,
The exiled fay flew to and fro;
Till finding here her home once more,
She warbles wildly as before!
The Violin's Complaint
William Roscoe Thayer ("Paul Hermes")
Honest Stradivari made men:
With the gift of love he blest me;
Once, delight, a master played me,
Love awoke when he caressed me!
Oh the deep, ecstatic burning!
Oh the secrets low and tender!
Oh the passion and the yearning
At our love's complete surrender!
Heartless men, so long to hide me
With the costly toys you cherish;
I'm a soul - again confide me
To a lover, ere I perish!
The Violin Never Played
Chayym Zeldis
...such notes as warbl'd to the string,
drew iron tears down Pluto's cheeks...
- John Milton
The violin never played
rested on a dining-room table,
gathering as-yet-invisible dust motes,
numberless shades of
shifting,
changing,
fading light.
Then it lay in darkness
as in a dumb
sepulcher,
keeping shape as hidden
as
music,
until dawn
crept back.
Passing it by
every day,
the boy dreamed
(he was a wrestler-of-dreams)
of playing the violin:
of filling the room,
the house,
the universe
(far out beyond
the billiard-ball planets,
pap-smear of Milky Way,
Ferris-wheel of galaxies)
with its notes.
But it was only in his mind
(and secretly in his heart)
that he played it:
in the actuality of things,
he never so much as
touched
the violin.
It was because of the man.
The man played the violin,
chained it to his fingers,
flayed the notes out of it;
and when he was through
with the rape,
the man warned it
not to whisper a word
about what he'd done,
then froze it solid
to the table
with one demented medusa-stare.
So the boy just glanced
at it,
passed (as if idly) by:
but the boy would
never touch the violin-
let alone lift it from its place,
cradle it in his arms,
lift the bow
to its shimmering strings.
To touch the violin,
thought the boy,
would be defilement:
the soul of the man
who played it
might infect him
forever.
The boy grew up,
left the dining-room
and the house,
for good.
The man
choked to death
on insatiable rage
Never again
did the boy see the violin:
but occasionally,
he heard stories
about what
happened to it.
Some said the Dark Angel
smothered it with a pillow;
some said a gypsy fled with it
to a kingdom where madness
was considered reason:
some said it was stolen
by pirates who took it up
the Congo River in a canoe
and buried it 12 feet deep,
just next-door to
Kurz's coconut plantation;
some said the ghost of Nero
ran off to fiddle on it
at a Fire-Fighters' gala
in the Coliseum;
some said it was raffled off
in a country where the people
never slept and won by
a man in a coma;
and some said
the Devil made use of it
on weekends and holidays
to seduce virgins
and politicians.
The boy-now himself a man-
swallowed
none of these stories:
in truth,
he'd heard enough malarkey
and old wives' tales
to last him twenty lifetimes.
He just smiled to himself:
because when traffic stopped,
he heard the violin
wailing like a jackal,
hallooing like a lost child,
crooning like a lover,
weeping like a widow,
cooing like an infant,
moaning like a woman in labor,
calling like a prophet in the wilderness
praying like a man on the gallows,
screaming like a banshee,
exulting like the newly-redeemed
atop Mount Zion:
O, he heard the violin
clearly, unmistakably,
and it wakened
all the unremembered memories
of the room,
the dining-table,
the light brimming,
fatiguing,
dimming,
the man
with the iron hands
who banished the boy
to Siberia.
Orpheus and Eurydice
John Godfrey Saxe
Sir Orpheus, whom the poets have sung
In every metre and every tongue,
Was, you may remember, a famous musician, -
At least for a youth in his pagan condition, -
For historians tell he played on his shell
From morning till night, so remarkably well
That his music created a regular spell
On trees and stones in forest and dell!
What sort of an instrument his could be
Is really more than is known to me, -
For none of the books have told, d'ye see!
It's very certain those heathen "swells"
Knew nothing at all of oyster-shells,
And it's clear Sir Orpheus never could own a
Shell like those they make in Cremona;
But whatever it was, to "move the stones"
It must have shelled out some powerful tones,
And entitled the player to rank in my rhyme
As the very Vieuxtemps of the very old time!
But alas for the joys of this mutable life!
Sir Orpheus lost his beautiful wife -
Eurydice, who vanished one day
From Earth, in a very unpleasant way!
It chanced, as near as I can determine,
Through one of those vertebrated vermin
That lie in the grass so prettily curled,
Waiting to "snake" you out of the world!
And the poets tell she went to - well -
A place where Greeks and Romans dwell
After they burst their mortal shell;
A region that in deepest shade is,
And known by the classical name of Hades, -
A different place from the terrible furnace
Of Tartarus, down below Avernus.
Now, having a heart uncommonly stout,
Sir Orpheus didn't go whining about,
Nor marry another, as you would, no doubt,
But made up his mind to fiddle her out!
But near the gate he had to wait,
For there in state old Cerberus sate,
A three-headed dog, as cruel as Fate,
Guarding the entrance early and late;
A beast so sagacious, and very voracious,
So uncommonly sharp and extremely rapacious,
That it really may be doubted whether
He'd have his match, should a common tether
Unite three aldermen's heads together!
But Orpheus, not in the least afraid,
Tuned up his shell, and quickly essayed
What could be done with a serenade,
In short, so charming an air he played,
He quite succeeded in overreaching
The cunning cur, by musical teaching,
And put him to sleep as fast as preaching!
And now our musical champion, Orpheus,
Having given the janitor over to Morpheus,
Went groping around among the ladies
Who throng the dismal halls of Hades,
Calling aloud
To the shady crowd,
In a voice as shrill as a martial fife,
"O, tell me where in hell is my wife!"
(A natural question, 'tis very plain,
Although it may sound a little profane.)
"Eurydice! Eu-ryd-i-ce!"
He cried as loud as loud could be,
(A singular sound, and funny withal,
In a place where nobody rides at all!)
"Eurydice! - Eurydice!
O, come, my dear, along with me!"
And then he played so remarkably fine,
That it really might be called divine, -
For who can show,
On earth or below,
Such wonderful feats in the musical line?
E'en Tantalus ceased from trying to sip
The cup that flies from his arid lip;
Ixion, too, the magic could feel,
And, for a moment, blocked his wheel;
Poor Sisyphus, doomed to tumble and toss
The notable stone that gathers no moss,
Let go his burden, and turned to hear
The charming sounds that ravished his ear;
And even the Furies - those terrible shrews
Whom no one before could ever amuse,
Those strong-bodied ladies with strong-minded views
Whom even the Devil would doubtless refuse,
Were his Majesty only permitted to choose,
Each felt for a moment her nature desert her,
And wept like a girl o'er the "Sorrows of Werther."
And still Sir Orpheus chanted his song,
Sweet and clear and strong and long,
"Eurydice! - Eurydice!"
He cried as loud as loud could be;
And Echo, taking up the word,
Kept it up till the lady heard,
And came with joy to meet her lord.
And he led her along the infernal route,
Until he had got her almost out,
When, suddenly turning his head about,
(To take a peep at his wife, no doubt,)
He gave a groan,
For the lady was gone,
And had left him standing there all alone!
For by an oath the gods had bound
Sir Orpheus not to look around
Till he was clear of the sacred ground,
If he'd have Eurydice safe and sound;
For the moment he did an act so rash
His wife would vanish as quick as a flash!
MORAL
Young women! beware, for goodness' sake,
Of every sort of "sarpent snake";
Remember the rogue is apt to deceive,
And played the deuce with grandmother Eve!
Young men! it's a critical thing to go
Exactly right with a lady in tow;
But when you are in the proper track,
Just go ahead, and never look back!
The Arkansas Traveler
Anonymous
Oh once upon a time in Arkansas
An old man sat in his little cabin door,
And fiddled at a tune that he liked to hear,
A jolly old tune that he played by ear.
It was raining hard but the fiddler didn't care
He sawed away at the popular air,
Though his roof tree leaked like a water fall
That didn't seem to bother that man at all
A traveler was riding by that day,
And stopped to hear him a-practicing away
The cabin was afloat and his feet were wet,
But still the old man didn't seem to fret.
So the stranger said: "Now the way it seems to me,
You'd better mend your roof," said he.
But the old man said, as he played away:
"I couldn't mend it now, it's a rainy day."
The traveler replied: "That's all quite true,
But this, I think, is the thing for you to do;
Get busy on a day that is fair and bright,
Then pitch the old roof till it's good and tight."
But the old man kept on a-playing at his reel,
And tapped the ground with his leathery heel:
"Get along," said he, "for you give me a pain;
My cabin never leaks when it doesn't rain."
Hans Spielman, der hat eine einzige Kuh
Anonymous
Hans Spielman, der hat
Eine einzige Kuh,
Verkauft seine Kuh,
Kriegt 'ne Fiedel dafr,
Du gute, alte Violin,
Du Violin, du Fidel mein.
Hans Spielmann, der spielt,
Und die Fiedel, die sang;
Das Mädel tat weinen,
Der Bursche, der sprang.
Du gute, alte Violin,
Du Violin, du Fidel mein.
Und werd' ich so alt,
Wie der älteste Baum,
Ich tauscht' für 'ne Kuh
Meine Fiedel wohl kaum.
Du gute, alte Violin,
Du Violin, du Fidel mein.
Und werd' ich so alt
Wie das Moos auf dem Stein,
Ich tausch' für ne Kuh
Meine Fiedel nicht ein.
Du gute, alte Violin,
Du Violin, du Fidel mein.
Uncle Jim
Alice Corbin, from Echoes of Childhood (A Folk-Medley)
Old Uncle Jim was as blind as a mole,
But he could fiddle Virginia Reels,
Till you felt the sap run out of your heels,
Till you knew the devil had got your soul -
Down the middle and swing yo' partners,
Up agin and salute her low,
Shake yo' foot an' keep a-goin',
Down the middle an' do-se-do!
Mind yo' manners an' doan git keerless,
Swing yo' lady and bow full low,
S'lute yo' partner an' turn yo' neighbor,
Gran'-right-an-'left, and aroun' you go!
A Minuet of Mozart's
Sara Teasdale, from Helen of Troy And Other Poems
Across the dimly lighted room
The violin drew wefts of sound,
Airily they wove and wound
And glimmered gold against the gloom.
I watched the music turn to light,
But at the pausing of the bow,
The web was broken and the glow
Was drowned within the wave of night.
The Violin - A Little Bit Nervous [original Russian text]
Vladimir Mayakovskiy (transl. Dorian Rottenberg)
The violin got all worked up, imploring
then suddenly burst into sobs,
so child-like
that the drum couldn't stand it:
"All right, all right, all right!"
But then he got tired, couldn't wait till the violin ended,
slipped out on the burning Kuznetsky
and took flight.
The orchestra looked on, chilly,
while the violin wept itself out
without reason
or rhyme,
and only somewhere,
a cymbal, silly,
kept clashing:
"What is it,
what's all the racket about?"
And when the helicon,
brass-faced, sweaty,
hollared:
"Crazy!
Crybaby!
Be still!"
I staggered,
on to my feet getting,
and lumbered
over the horror-stuck music stands,
yelling,
"Good God"
why, I myself couldn't tell;
then dashed, my arms round the wooden neck to fling:
"You know what, violin,
we're awfully alike;
I too
always yell,
but can't prove a thing!"
The musicains commented,
contemptuously smiling:
"Look at him-
come to his wooden-bride -
tee-hee!"
But I don't care -
I'm a good guy-
"You know, what, violin,
let's live together,
eh?"
Blind Jack
Edgar Lee Masters, from Spoon River Anthology
I had fiddled all day at the county fair.
But driving home "Butch" Weldy and Jack McGuire,
Who were roaring full, made me fiddle and fiddle
To the song of Susie Skinner, while whipping the horses
Till they ran away. Blind as I was, I tried to get out
As the carriage fell in the ditch,
And was caught in the wheels and killed.
There's a blind man here with a brow
As big and white as a cloud.
And all we fiddlers, from highest to lowest,
Writers of music and tellers of stories
Sit at his feet,
And hear him sing of the fall of Troy.
Lied des Unmuts [excerpt]
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, from West-östlicher Divan
Keinen Reimer wird man finden
Der sich nicht den besten hielte,
Keinen Fiedler, der nicht lieber
Eigne Melodien spielte.
Fiddler Jones
Edgar Lee Masters, from Spoon River Anthology
The earth keeps some vibration going
There in your heart, and that is you.
And if the people find you can fiddle,
Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
What do you see, a harvest of clover?
Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
The wind's in the corn; you rub your hands
For beeves hereafter ready for market;
Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
Stepping it off, to "Toor-a-Loor."
How could I till my forty acres
Not to speak of getting more,
With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos
Stirred in my brain by crows and robins
And the creak of a wind-mill-only these?
And I never started to plow in my life
That some one did not stop in the road
And take me away to a dance or picnic.
I ended up with forty acres;
I ended up with a broken fiddle -
And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
And not a single regret.
The Compleat Virtuoso
Edward Lear
There was an old man of the Isles,
Whose face was pervaded with smiles;
He sang "High dum diddle",
And played on the fiddle,
That amiable man of the Isles.
Bath
Carl Sandburg, from Chicago Poems
A man saw the whole world as a grinning skull and
cross-bones. The rose flesh of life shriveled from all
faces. Nothing counts. Everything is a fake. Dust to
dust and ashes to ashes and then an old darkness and a
useless silence. So he saw it all. Then he went to a
Mischa Elman concert. Two hours waves of sound beat
on his eardrums. Music washed something or other
inside him. Music broke down and rebuilt something or
other in his head and heart. He joined in five encores
for the young Russian Jew with the fiddle. When he
got outside his heels hit the sidewalk a new way. He
was the same man in the same world as before. Only
there was a singing fire and a climb of roses everlastingly
over the world he looked on.
Kreisler
Carl Sandburg, from Cornhuskers
Kreisler
-
Sell me a violin, mister, of old mysterious wood.
Sell me a fiddle that has kissed dark nights on the forehead where men kiss sisters they love.
Sell me dried wood that has ached with passion clutching the knees and arms of a storm.
Sell me horsehair and rosin that has sucked at the breasts of the morning sun for milk.
Sell me something crushed in the heartsblood of pain readier than ever for one more song.
Best Violin
Emily Pohl-Weary
with the very best violin
strapped to the back
of his dad's grey trench coat
he survived somehow
wrote bad poetry
rode that rotting skateboard
like a blocked beat poet in search of inspiration
and God, the class belle loved his scent of pallid suicide
skipping class, palms sweaty
he was chubby acid-wash jeans
she was laughing blue eye shadow, mascara smudged, black cat earrings
oh, could they ever talk on the phone for hours
they were Betty and Archie
skating in Kensington Market
a year of punks,
subway stations,
escalators,
vintage clothing shops
he wrote love in her yearbook
she introduced her mother
and, though she faked it,
she never could play the violin to save her life
Hombres con Violín
Carmen Conde
Esos hombres del violín llevan su voz en el brazo
como la vena firme de una canción muchacha.
Van celándola dulces, con los ojos cerrados,
todos brasa y suspiro del ensueño que llueve
diminuto rocío de aprisionadas flores
en los cuerpos fragrantes de sus violínes msicos,
aun con hojas y aromas del encendido bosque.
Un violín es la voz de una fuente con viento
a la que brizan ásperos y dulcsimos soplos.
Lo sabe quien lo pulsa, y flotan sus cabellos
como yerba que sube por el tronco de un árbol,
mientras la mano empuja hacia el cielo las cuerdas
y la otra recorre con el arco un zodíaco.
En rubio; huele a nardo en la noche con luna,
y de jazmines siembra la abandonada tarde.
Tan delgado y ligero como fueron las ninfas,
sinuoso y con algas, como verde sirena.
Es la voz que prefiere la Primavera fría.
Y al Otoño le cuenta que se fueron las aves.
Los cipreses la exhalan. El calor de los vuelos
en los violínes junta con las plumas los nidos.
The Touch of the Master's Hand
Myra Brooks Welch
Twas battered and scarred,
And the old auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
to waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile:
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar, a dollar"; then, "Two!" "Only two?
Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
going for three ..." but no.
From the room far back, a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet
As a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said; "What am I bidden for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.
"A thousand! And who'll make it two?
Two thousand! And who'll make it three?
Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,
And going, and gone," said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand
What changed it's worth." Swift came the reply:
"The touch of the master's hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like this old violin.
A "mess of pottage,"
a glass of wine;
A game; and he travels on.
He is "going" once,
"going" twice,
He's "going" and almost "gone."
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought
By the touch of the Master's hand.
The Devil in the Violin [excerpt]
C. Dale Young
I was right. The poem was coming. I was pretty sure of it yesterday when I started knowing where the lines went, that one was the opening line, another the ultimate line. And I started seeing how other lines would fit here and there. And I called Jacob and pestered him about the opening of Saint-Saens' "Danse Macabre." And I knew it right then and there the poem was taking on a life of its own. He must have heard the poem talking when I began to ask about the "devil" in the violin. He must have known when I asked him to define "Tritone," to explain to me how an augmented Fourth works. And when he told me how the violin must be tuned specifically to play this piece, the poem went nuts. THAT was it. That was IT.
April Played a Fiddle
Frank Sinatra
April played a fiddle
And my heart began to dance
And I was so surprised to find
My arms around romance.
April played a fiddle
And I memorized the tune
And later on, a dream and i
Went singing to the moon.
Then may began to gossip,
And june just winked her eye,
And you should have seen
The know-it-all expression on July.
April played a fiddle
Ah but here's the funny part,
I had to pay the fiddler
With my one and only heart.
A Seasonal Tradition
Pattiann Rogers, from Firekeeper: Selected Poems
Felicia's music teacher gives a concert for Sonia,
Cecil, Albert, Gordon and Felicia and her insane uncle
In the front parlor every holiday season.
After her traditional repertoire she always plays
One piece on her violin in a register so high
The music can't be heard.
The silence of the parlor during that piece
Is almost complete, broken only by the sputter
Of a candle, a creaking yawn from one of the dogs.
Albert admires the entranced look
On the music teacher's face and the curious trembling
Form other fingers as she plays. He thinks
He can hear the unheard music in the same way he can hear
Wind among the black strings of the icy willows blowing
In the tundra night. He thinks the silence he hears
Is the same silence found in the eyes of the frogs living
Below the mud at the bottom of the frozen bays.
With tears in her eyes, Felicia says the unheard song
Reminds her of the cries of unborn rice rats
And bog lemmings buried in the winter marsh
And the humming of the white hobblebush blossom still
In its seed and the trill of the unreal bird discovered
In the river trees by the river sun.
Watching the violinist swaying in her velvet gown,
Closing her eyes, pursing her lips, Cecil knows
Sonia is the only possible theme of this composition.
Hoping for a cure for Felicia's uncle, Sonia thinks
The inaudible music might be the unspoken speech
In which he is thought to have lost himself years ago.
At the conclusion of the piece (signaled
By the lowering of the violin) there is always spontaneous
Applause and much barking and leaping by the dogs.
The unheard composition is the one song
Most discussed later over tea and pastries,
And, although it was the subject of the quarrel
During which Cecil knocked Albert's doughnut
From his hand last year, it is still generally considered
The evening's greatest success.
36th Light Poem: In Memoriam Buster Keaton [excerpt]
Jackson Mac Low, from 9 Light Poems
As a Violinist
Buster surpasses Paganini
until Boston-Concert-Hall Light
Poisons him with Love for a Proper Bostonian Maiden
Thank God I'm a Country Boy
John Martin Sommers
Well life on the farm is kinda laid back
Ain't much an old country boy like me can't hack
It's early to rise, early in the sack
Thank God I'm a country boy
Well a simple kinda life never did me no harm
A raisin' me a family and workin' on a farm
My days are all filled with an easy country charm
Thank God I'm a country boy
Well I got me a fine wife I got me a fiddle
When the sun's comin' up I got cakes on the griddle
Life ain't nothin' but a funy funny riddle
Thank God I'm a country boy
When the work's all done and the sun's settlin' low
I pull out my fiddle and I rosin up the bow
The kids are asleep so I keep it kinda low
Thank God I'm a country boy
I'd play "Sally Goodin'" all day if I could
But the lord and my wife wouldn't take it very good
So I fiddle when I could, work when I should
Thank God I'm a country boy
Well I got me a fine wife, etc.
Well I wouldn't trade my life for diamonds and jewels
I never was one of them money hungry fools
Iid rather have my fiddle and my farmin' tools
Thank God I'm a country boy
Yeah, city folk drivin' in a black limousine
A lotta sad people thinkin' that's mighty keen
Son, let me tell ya now exactly what I mean
Thank God I'm a country boy
Well I got me a fine wife, etc.
Well, my fiddle was my daddy's till the day he died
And he took me by the hand and held me close to his side
Said, "live a good life and play my fiddle with pride
And thank God you're a country boy"
My daddy taught me young how to hunt and how to whittle
Taught me how to work and play a tune on the fiddle
Taught me how to love and how to give just a little
Thank God I'm a country boy
Well I got me a fine wife, etc.
Veronica Veronese [inscription]
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, from (spurious) Lettres de Girolamo Ridolfi
Se penchant vivement, la Veronica jeta les premières notes sur la feuille vierge. Ensuite elle prit l'archet du violon pour réaliser son rêve; mais avant de décrocher l'instrument suspendu, elle resta quelques instants immobile en écoutant l'oiseau inspirateur, pendant que sa main gauche errait sur les cordes cherchant le motif suprème encore eloigné. C'était le mariage des voix de la nature et de l'âme - l'aube d'une création mystique.
The Training of the Poet [excerpt]
James Fenton, from An Introduction to English Poetry
One problem we face, as aspiring poets, comes from the lack of any agreed sense of how we should be working in order to train ourselves to write poetry. The old joke - 'Can you play the violin?' 'I don't know-I've never tried' - depends on an understanding of a state of affairs that many a poet might find enviable: there is agreement as to what training and practice might be.
We know, of course, that we will never play the violin on the basis of inspiration alone, and we know that we are unlikely to work out the technique for ourselves, based on first principles. We know we need training and we know we need practice. Whichever direction our efforts lead us in, whether it is the concert hall or the gypsy band, we will know whether we come to be able to do what our peers or our mentors can do.
Supposing that we rise to the heights of our musical profession, we may reach a point when we cannot know for certain, because such things cannot be known by any artist, whether we are merely very good, or whether we have secured a truly distinguished place in the history of violin-playing. But, unless we are engaged in some gross and elaborate form of self-deception, we will roughly know what bracket we belong in.
Kindertoten [excerpt]
Nigel Jarrett
Berg's violin concerto commemorates
an "angel" it soars at the end
after much thunder, as sunlight
rallies this plot, climbing the wall
like a little juice-smudged scrumper.
Fairy Tale
Katherine Mansfield
Now this is the story of Olaf
Who ages and ages ago
Lived right on the top of a mountain,
A mountain all covered with snow.
And he was quite pretty and tiny
With beautiful curling fair hair
And small hands like delicate flowers -
Cheeks kissed by the cold mountain air.
He lived in a hut made of pinewood
Just one little room and a door
A table, a chair, and a bedstead
And animal skins on the floor.
Now Olaf was partly fairy
And so never wanted to eat;
He thought dewdrops and raindrops were plenty
And snowflakes and all perfumes sweet.
In the daytime when sweeping and dusting
And cleaning were quite at an end,
He would sit very still on the doorstep
And dream - O, that he had a friend!
Somebody to come when he called them,
Somebody to catch by the hand,
Somebody to sleep with at night time,
Somebody who'd quite understand.
One night in the middle of Winter
He lay wide awake on his bed,
Outside there was fury of tempest
And calling of wolves to be fed -
Thin wolves, grey and silent as shadows;
And Olaf was frightened to death.
He had peeped through a crack in the doorpost,
He had seen the white smoke of their breath.
But suddenly over the storm wind
He heard a small voice pleadingly
Cry, "I am a snow fairy, Olaf,
Unfasten the window for me."
So he did, and there flew through the opening
The daintiest, prettiest sprite
Her face and her dress and her stockings,
Her hands and her curls were all white.
And she said, "O you poor little stranger
Before I am melted, you know,
I have brought you a valuable present,
A little brown fiddle and bow.
So now you can never be lonely,
With a fiddle, you see, for a friend,
But all through the Summer and Winter
Play beautiful songs without end."
And then, - O she melted like water,
But Olaf was happy at last;
The fiddle he tucked in his shoulder,
He held his small bow very fast.
So perhaps on the quietest of evenings
If you listen, you may hear him soon,
The child who is playing the fiddle
Away up in the cold, lonely moon.
The Spirit lasts - but in what mode - [excerpt]
Emily Dickinson
The Music in the Violin
Does not emerge alone
But Arm in Arm with Touch, yet Touch
Alone - is not a Tune -
I think the longest Hour of all [excerpt]
Emily Dickinson
Then I - my timid service done -
Tho' service 'twas, of Love -
Take up my little Violin -
And further North - remove.
Béranger's "Broken Fiddle"
Eugene Field
I
There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend,
Pay you no heed unto my sorrow:
But feast to-day while yet you may, -
Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!
II
"Give us a tune," the foemen cried,
In one of their profane caprices;
I bade them "No" - they frowned, and, lo!
They dashed this innocent in pieces!
III
This fiddle was the village pride -
The mirth of every fte enhancing;
Its wizard art set every heart
As well as every foot to dancing.
IV
How well the bridegroom knew its voice,
As from its strings its song went gushing!
Nor long delayed the promised maid
Equipped for bridal, coy and blushing.
V
Why, it discoursed so merrily,
It quickly banished all dejection;
And yet, when pressed, our priest confessed
I played with pious circumspection.
VI
And though, in patriotic song,
It was our guide, compatriot, teacher,
I never thought the foe had wrought
His fury on the helpless creature!
VII
But there, poor dog, my faithful friend,
Pay you no heed unto my sorrow;
I prithee take this paltry cake, -
Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!
VIII
Ah, who shall lead the Sunday choir
As this old fiddle used to do it?
Can vintage come, with this voice dumb
That used to bid a welcome to it?
IX
It soothed the weary hours of toil,
It brought forgetfulness to debtors;
Time and again from wretched men
It struck oppression's galling fetters.
X
No man could hear its voice, and hate;
It stayed the teardrop at its portal;
With that dear thing I was a king
As never yet was monarch mortal!
XI
Now has the foe - the vandal foe -
Struck from my hands their pride and glory;
There let it lie! In vengeance, I
Shall wield another weapon, gory!
XII
And if, O countrymen, I fall,
Beside our grave let this be spoken:
"No foe of France shall ever dance
Above the heart and fiddle, broken!"
XIII
So come, poor dog, my faithful friend,
I prithee do not heed my sorrow,
But feast to-day while yet you may,
For we are like to starve to-morrow.
Der Nachbar
Rainer Maria Rilke
Fremde Geige, gehst du mir nach?
In wieviel fernen Städten schon sprach
deine einsame Nacht zu meiner?
Spielen dich hunderte? Spielt dich einer?
Gibt es in allen großen Städten
solche, die sich ohne dich
schon in den Flüßen verloren htten?
Und warum trifft es immer mich?
Warum bin ich immer der Nachbar derer,
die dich bange zwingen zu singen
und zu sagen: Das Leben ist schwerer
als die Schwere von allen Dingen
Liebe-Lied
Rainer Maria Rilke
Wie kann ich meine Seele in mir halten, damit
sie nicht Ihre Seele berührt? Wie kann ich sie stark genug,
hinter Ihnen, zu anderen Sachen anheben?
Ich möchte sie, unter verlorenen
entferntgegenständen, in irgendeinem dunklem und leisem Platz
schützen, der nicht wenn Ihr Tiefen resound mitschwingt.
Dennoch nimmt alles, das uns, mich und Sie
berührt, uns zusammen wie der Bogen einer Violine,
der eine Stimme aus zwei seperate Zeichenketten heraus zeichnet.
Nach welchem Instrument sind wir zwei überspannten?
Und welcher Musiker hält uns in seiner Hand?
OH - süssestes Lied.
Amphion [excerpt]
Alfred Lord Tennyson
O had I lived when song was great
In days of old Amphion,
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate,
Nor cared for seed or scion!
And had I lived when song was great,
And legs of trees were limber,
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate,
And fiddled in the timber!
The Man in the Moon Came Down too Soon
J.R.R. Tolkien
There is an inn, a merry old inn
beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
one night to drink his fill.
The ostler has a tipsy cat
that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he saws his bow
Now squeaking high, now purring low,
now sawing in the middle.
The landlord keeps a little dog
that is mighty fond of jokes;
When there's good cheer among the guests,
He cocks an ear at all the jests
and laughs until he chokes.
They also keep a hornéd cow
as proud as any queen;
But music turns her head like ale,
And makes her wave her tufted tail
and dance upon the green.
And O! the rows of silver dishes
and the store of silver spoons!
For Sunday there's a special pair,
And these they polish up with care
on Saturday afternoons.
The Man in the Moon was drinking deep,
and the cat began to wail;
A dish and a spoon on the table danced,
The cow in the garden madly pranced
and the little dog chased his tail.
The Man in the Moon took another mug,
and then rolled beneath his chair;
And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,
Till in the sky the stars were pale,
and dawn was in the air.
Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat:
'The white horses of the Moon,
They neigh and champ their silver bits;
But their master's been and drowned his wits,
and the Sun'll be rising soon!'
So the cat on the fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,
a jig that would wake the dead:
He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,
While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:
'It's after three!' he said.
They rolled the Man slowly up the hill
and bundled him into the Moon,
While his horses galloped up in rear,
And the cow came capering like a deer,
and a dish ran up with the spoon.
Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;
the dog began to roar,
The cow and the horses stood on their heads;
The guests all bounded from their beds
and danced upon the floor.
With a ping and a pang the fiddle-strings broke!
the cow jumped over the Moon,
And the little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the Saturday dish went off at a run
with the silver Sunday spoon.
The Nightingale [excerpt]
Anonymous
They hadn't been standin' a minute or two,
When out of his knapsack a fiddle he drew;
And the tune that he played made the valleys all ring,
Made the waters go glidin', made the nightingale sing!
The Waggoner: Canto Second
William Wordsworth
If Wytheburn's modest House of prayer,
As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,
Had, with its belfry's humble stock,
A little pair that hang in air,
Been mistress also of a clock,
(And one, too, not in crazy plight)
Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling
Under the brow of old Helvellyn -
Its bead-roll of midnight,
Then, when the Hero of my tale
Was passing by, and, down the vale
(The vale now silent, hushed I ween
As if a storm had never been)
Proceeding with a mind at ease;
While the old Familiar of the seas,
Intent to use his utmost haste,
Gained ground upon the Waggon fast,
And gives another lusty cheer;
For spite of rumbling of the wheels,
A welcome greeting he can hear; -
It is a fiddle in its glee
Dinning from the CHERRY TREE!
Thence the sound - the light is there - 0
As Benjamin is now aware,
Who, to his inward thoughts confined,
Had almost reached the festive door,
When, startled by the Sailor's roar,
He hears a sound and sees a light,
And in a moment calls to mind
That 'tis the village MERRY-NIGHT!
Although before in no dejection,
At this insidious recollection
His heart with sudden joy is filled, -
His ears are by the music thrilled,
His eyes take pleasure in the road
Glittering before him bright and broad;
And Benjamin is wet and cold,
And there are reasons manifold
That make the good, tow'rds which he's yearning,
Look fairly like a lawful earning.
Nor has thought time to come and go,
To vibrate between yes and no;
For, cries the Sailor, "Glorious chance
That blew us hither! - let him dance,
Who can or will! - my honest soul,
Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!"
He draws him to the door - "Come in,
Come, come," cries he to Benjamin!
And Benjamin - ah, woe is me!
Gave the word - the horses heard
And halted, though reluctantly.
"Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we,
Feasting at the CHERRY TREE!"
This was the outside proclamation,
This was the inside salutation;
What bustling - jostling - high and low!
A universal overflow!
What tankards foaming from the tap!
What store of cakes in every lap!
What thumping - stumping - overhead!
The thunder had not been more busy:
With such a stir you would have said,
This little place may well be dizzy!
'Tis who can dance with greatest vigour -
'Tis what can be most prompt and eager;
As if it heard the fiddle's call,
The pewter clatters on the wall;
The very bacon shows its feeling,
Swinging from the smoky ceiling!
A steaming bowl, a blazing fire,
What greater good can heart desire?
'Twere worth a wise man's while to try
The utmost anger of the sky:
To 'seek' for thoughts of a gloomy cast,
If such the bright amends at last.
Now should you say I judge amiss,
The CHERRY TREE shows proof of this;
For soon of all the happy there,
Our Travellers are the happiest pair;
All care with Benjamin is gone -
A Caesar past the Rubicon!
He thinks not of his long, long strife; -
The Sailor, Man by nature gay,
Hath no resolves to throw away;
And he hath now forgot his Wife,
Hath quite forgotten her - or may be
Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth,
Within that warm and peaceful berth,
Under cover,
Terror over,
Sleeping by her sleeping Baby,
With bowl that sped from hand to hand,
The gladdest of the gladsome band,
Amid their own delight and fun,
They hear - when every dance is done,
When every whirling bout is o'er -
The fiddle's 'squeak' - that call to bliss,
Ever followed by a kiss;
They envy not the happy lot,
But enjoy their own the more!
While thus our jocund Travellers fare,
Up springs the Sailor from his chair -
Limps (for I might have told before
That he was lame) across the floor -
Is gone - returns - and with a prize;
With what? - a Ship of lusty size;
A gallant stately Man-of-war,
Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car.
Surprise to all, but most surprise
To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes,
Not knowing that he had befriended
A Man so gloriously attended!
"This," cries the Sailor, "a Third-rate is -
Stand back, and you shall see her gratis!
This was the Flag-ship at the Nile,
The Vanguard - you may smirk and smile,
But, pretty Maid, if you look near,
You'll find you've much in little here!
A nobler ship did never swim,
And you shall see her in full trim:
I'll set, my friends, to do you honour,
Set every inch of sail upon her."
So said, so done; and masts, sails, yards, 0
He names them all; and interlards
His speech with uncouth terms of art,
Accomplished in the showman's part;
And then, as from a sudden check,
Cries out - "'Tis there, the quarter-deck
On which brave Admiral Nelson stood -
A sight that would have roused your blood!
One eye he had, which, bright as ten,
Burned like a fire among his men;
Let this be land, and that be sea,
Here lay the French - and 'thus' came we!"
Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound,
The dancers all were gathered round,
And, such the stillness of the house,
You might have heard a nibbling mouse;
While, borrowing helps where'er he may,
The Sailor through the story runs
Of ships to ships and guns to guns;
And does his utmost to display
The dismal conflict, and the might
And terror of that marvellous night!
"A bowl, a bowl of double measure,"
Cries Benjamin, "a draught of length,
To Nelson, England's pride and treasure,
Her bulwark and her tower of strength!"
When Benjamin had seized the bowl,
The mastiff, from beneath the waggon,
Where he lay, watchful as a dragon,
Rattled his chain; - 'twas all in vain,
For Benjamin, triumphant soul!
He heard the monitory growl;
Heard - and in opposition quaffed
A deep, determined, desperate draught!
Nor did the battered Tar forget,
Or flinch from what he deemed his debt:
Then, like a hero crowned with laurel,
Back to her place the ship he led;
Wheeled her back in full apparel;
And so, flag flying at mast head,
Re-yoked her to the Ass: - anon,
Cries Benjamin, "We must be gone.
Thus, after two hours' hearty stay,
Again behold them on their way!
Nauka [excerpt]
Anton Chekhov
To regard one's immortality as an exchange of matter is as strange as predicting the future of a violin case once the expensive violin it held has broken and lost its worth.
The Violinist
Archibald Lampman
In Dresden in the square one day,
His face of parchment, seamed and gray,
With wheezy bow and proffered hat,
An old blind violinist sat.
Like one from whose worn heart to heat
Of life had long ago retired,
He played to the unheeding street
Until the thin old hands were tired.
Few marked the player how he played,
Or how the child beside his knee
Besought the passers-by for aid
So softly and so wistfully.
A stranger passed. The little hand
Went forth, so often checked and spurned.
The stranger wavered, came to stand,
Looked round with absent eyes and turned.
He saw the sightless withered face,
The tired old hands, the whitened hair,
The child with such a mournful grace,
The little features pinched and spare.
"I have no money, but," said he,
"Give me the violin and bow.
I'll play a little, we shall see,
Whether the gold will come or no."
With lifted brow and flashing eyes
He faced the noisy street and played.
The people turned in quick surprise,
And every foot drew near and stayed.
First from the shouting bow he sent
A summons, an impetuous call;
Then some old store of grief long pent
Broke from his heart and mastered all.
Th tumult sank at his command,
The passing wheels were hushed and stilled;
The burning soul, the sweeping hand
A sacred ecstasy fulfilled.
The darkness of the outer strife,
The weariness and want within,
The giant wrongfulness of life,
Leaped storming from the violin.
Th jingling round of pleasure broke,
Gay carriages were drawn anear,
And all the proud and haughty folk
Leaned from their cushioned seats to hear.
And then the player changed his tone,
And wrought another miracle
Of music, half a prayer, half moan,
A cry exceeding sorrowful.
A strain of pity for the weak,
The poor that fall without a cry,
The common hearts that never speak,
But break beneath the press and die.
Throughout the great and silent crowd
The music fell on human ears,
And many kindly heads were bowed,
And many eyes were warm with tears.
"And now your gold," the player cried,
"While love is master of your mood;"
He bowed, and turned, and slipped aside,
And vanished in the multitude.
And all the people flocked at that,
The money like a torrent rolled,
Until the gray old battered hat
Was bursting to the brim with gold.
And loudly as the giving grew,
The question rose on every part,
If any named or any knew
The stranger with so great a heart,
Or what the moving wonder meant,
Such playing never heard before;
A lady from her carriage leant,
And murmured softly, "It was Spohr."
Prayer to Escape the East [excerpt]
Christopher Buckley
Down a side street, the wind goes on
tuning its violin, a pizzicato off
the thin strings of hope, a melody
of dust.
Blue Blooded Woman
Alan Jackson
She loves a violin, I love a fiddle
We go separate ways but we meet in the middle
Don't see eye to eye but we're hand in hand
A blue blooded woman and a redneck man
The lady I love loves silk and satin
She was raised uptown with a silver spoon
Well, I was born on a farm just south of Jackson
We had an old ford tractor and a country moon
She loves a violin, etc.
She's Saks Fifth Avenue perfection
Caviar and dignified
Well, I live my life in Wal-Mart fashion
And I like my sushi southern fried
She loves a violin, etc.
The Dancing Seal
Wilfred Wilson Gibson
When we were building Skua Light -
The first men who had lived a night
Upon that deep-sea Isle -
As soon as chisel touched the stone,
The friendly seals would come ashore;
And sit and watch us all the while,
As though they'd not seen men before;
And so, poor beasts, had never known
Men had the heart to do them harm.
They'd little cause to feel alarm
With us, for we were glad to find
Some friendliness in that strange sea;
Only too pleaed to let them be
And sit as long as they'd a mind
To watch us: for their eyes were kind
Like women's eyes, it seemed to me.
So, hour on hour, they sat: I think
They liked to hear the chisels clink:
And when the boy sang loud and clear,
They scrambled closer in to hear;
And if he whistled sweet and shrill,
The queer beasts shuffled nearer still:
But every sleek and sheeny skin
Was mad to hear his violin.
When, work all over for the day,
He'd take his fiddle down and play
His merry tunes beside the sea,
Their eyes grew brighter and more bright,
And burned and twinkled merrily:
And as I watched them one still night,
And saw their eager sparkling eyes,
I felt those lively seals would rise
Some shiny night ere he could know,
And dance about him, heel and toe,
Unto the fiddle's heady tune.
And at the rising of the moon,
Half-daft, I took my stand before
A young seal lying on the shore;
And called on her to dance with me.
And it seemed hardly strange when she
Stood up before me suddenly,
And shed her black and sheeny skin;
And smiled, all eager to begin...
And I was dancing, heel and toe,
With a young maiden, white as snow,
Unto a crazy violin.
We danced beneath the dancing moon
All night, beside the dancing sea,
With tripping toes and skipping heels:
And all about us friendly seals
Like Christian folk were dancing reels
Unto the fiddle's endless tune
That kept on spinning merrily
As though it never meant to stop.
And never once the snow-white maid
A moment stayed
To take a breath,
Though I was fit to drop:
And while those wild eyes challenged me,
I knew as well as well could be
I must keep step with that young girl,
Though we should dance to death.
Then with a skirl
The fiddle broke:
The moon went out:
The sea stopped dead:
And, in a twinkling, all the rout
Of dancing folk had fled...
And in the chill bleak dawn I woke
Upon the naked rock, alone.
They've brought me far from Skua Isle...
I laugh to think they do not know
That as, all day I chip the stone,
Among my fellows here inland,
I smell the sea-wrack on the shore...
And see her snowy-tossing hand,
And meet again her merry smile...
And dream I'm dancing all the while,
I'm dancing ever, heel and toe,
With a seal-maiden, white as snow,
On that moonshiny Island-strand,
For ever and for evermore.
If You're Gonna Play in Texas
Dan Mitchell and Murray Kellum
If you're gonna play in Texas,
You gotta have a fiddle in the band.
That lead guitar is hot,
But not for Lousiana man.
So rosin up that bow for faded love
And let's all dance.
If you're gonna play in Texas,
You gotta have a fiddle in the band.
I remember down in Houston
We were puttin' on a show
When a cowboy in the back stood up and yelled,
Cotton-eyed Joe!
He said, we love what you're doin'.
Boys don't get us wrong,
There's just somethin' missin' in your song.
So we dusted off our boots and put our cowboy hats on straight.
Them Texans raised the roof when jeff opened up his case.
You say y'all all wanna two-step. you say ya wanna doe-si-doe.
Well, here's a fiddlin' song before we go.
Nacken - Water Demon
Erik Johan Stagnelius
The evening is festooned with golden clouds
the fairies dance in the meadow
and the leaf-crowned Nacken
plays his fiddle in the silvery brook.
Little boy in the brush on the bank
resting in the violet vapor
hears the noise from the chilly water
calls out in the night.
"Poor old fellow, why do you play?
will it take the pain away?
you bring the woods and the fields to life
but you'll never be a child of God.
Paradise's moonlit nights
eden's flower-crowned plains
angels of the light on high -
never to be beheld by your eye."
Tears stream down the old man's face
down he dives into the rapids
the fiddle silences.
And the Nacken will never
play again in the silvery brook.
the talented family [excerpts]
Robert Peters, from Holy Cow: Parable Poems
1.
my father makes mandolins
of rosin and turtle shells.
my mother plays the violin.
my brother raises poodles for
senior citizens. my sister
has few brains. each day
she explains by letter
that she's getting better.
she knows that roses glow
when the desert hot winds blow.
4.
my dad was dead: he'd tried to shoot
a rabid dog and missed. my mother's
face was covered with paste. her
breasts were bare. "Come in," she said,
in bed. She took her violin. She
lit a candle and played a little air
from Handel. "Your sister, I'm afraid
is off her rocker. Your brother's trade
in pets is through, he's screwing
the old women. Now, son, tell me
what you've done."
That fiddle's got the devil in it!
Scott Emmons
Paganini!
Paganini, Paganini,
Mortal, demon, witch or genie,
Mephistophelean maestro
Of the mystic violin!
With the sting of your staccato
And your prickly pizzicato,
When you'd diddle on your fiddle,
It was little short of sin.
Paganini, Paganini,
Lean and lanky like linguine,
With a manner that was manically
Satanic when you played,
How your haunting hint of Hades
Would inflame the local ladies.
You were fiery, you were wiry,
You were very often laid!
Paganini, Paganini,
You're the fiddler's own Houdini,
A magician-cum-musician,
Be you devil, be you man.
Give the opera buffs Rossini,
Give 'em Verdi and Puccini.
Call me geek or call me weenie,
I'm a Paganini fan!
To a Gentleman, who presented the Author with a Violin
Charles Valentine Le Grice
O! Harmony, sweet minstrel of the spheres,
Who know'st to raise the rapturous glow,
Or wake the tenderest tear of woe,
Come, dear companion of my future years!
Oft in sorrow's saddest hour
The softest magic of thy power,
Shall sooth my troubled breast to peace,
Till the hushed storm shall seem to cease;
Oft, when the tumults of my joy run high,
Shall lull my melted soul in extasy.
- While still, O L - n, still shall Memory
Uprear her listening head, and, as they float,
Still catch the cadence of each thrilling note
Thinking it sounds of Gratitude and Thee.
Violin
Sheila Black
You must use the body - its curves,
its hollows, the spring of the sound, which
brings back what is absent, what has
been and is now gone, fading. Cat-gut,
fret, the busy machinery of longing,
which takes its strength from the
presence of absence, the body's darkness,
the wood carved out, thinned and
made to flex. There is a pain at the
source of it - so easily broken, this tree
without a heart, the sap dried to amber
patina. Only in the sound can you
hear it move, the veins in the blood of
the body that is no more. The bow pulled
along the taut strings, a pitch that
is all but unbearable.
Playing Violin in Seventh Grade
Dick Allen, from Ode to the Cold War: Poems New and Selected
I kept my eyes on the teacher conducting, his eyebrows
arched, his arms lifted like birds over a field. He sucked in his breath,
and I placed my violin with its chin pad the color of fertile ground
under my jaw, positioned my bow on the strings above the little bridge
like one my family drove over each fall to the apple cider mill.
I heard my father clear his throat in an otherwise silent
auditorium, the soft horse hair of my bow a bundle of brittle
leaves rasping across concrete. I closed my eyes, saw the cider mill's
wishing well with shining coins under water, my shoulders
hunched high as the bucket, its rope tight around the windlass.
The Violin-Maker
Michael Cope, from Some Examples of Silence
Joey Finkl calls himself the last anarchist in town.
He's been here over fifty years, making fiddles,
right here (except the wars) six days each week,
sometimes seven. "I don't go with religion.
I work when I like. That's most of the time,
because, you see, I love to make them,
my babies, hmmm." He reaches among
the shavings and tools and dried out glue pots
and oil rags for a block of wood on which
is drawn the fine curved outline of a violin.
He holds the block up to his ear, knocks
with a knuckle whose backlit white hairs
make lines of light. He says, "Listen to that.
With care it will sing. You can hear it. Listen."
He says, "Most people don't take care,
and you know why? Because they don't care.
Look at it for yourself: Apartheid, the rich
robbing the poor, the poor, they rob each other.
Sure, some people fight for them, and a few
of the poor fight too, but that's not enough,
all of the people must care enough
to stand up for themselves. I fought in Spain,
and against Hitler, in Africa.
Then I got tired of fighting.
It has no heart. Music is better."
He tucks the block of wood under his chin
and humming, bows the air left-handed. He says:
"We can live without money, without nations,"
and he spits into the shavings,
"without rabbis and priests,"
he moves his hand to pat his heart
and the block falls to the dust and he ignores it,
touching his breast: "But without this heart
we are nothing, and less than nothing."
The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table [excerpt]
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Violins, too, - the sweet old Amati! - the divine Stradivarius! Played on by ancient MAESTROS until the bow-hand lost its power and the flying fingers stiffened. Bequeathed to the passionate, young enthusiast, who made it whisper his hidden love, and cry his inarticulate longings, and scream his untold agonies, and wail his monotonous despair. Passed from his dying hand to the cold VIRTUOSO, who let it slumber in its case for a generation, till, when his hoard was broken up, it came forth once more and rode the stormy symphonies of royal orchestras, beneath the rushing bow of their lord and leader. Into lonely prisons with improvident artists; into convents from which arose, day and night, the holy hymns with which its tones were blended; and back again to orgies in which it learned to howl and laugh as if a legion of devils were shut up in it; then again to the gentle DILETTANTE who calmed it down with easy melodies until it answered him softly as in the days of the old MAESTROS. And so given into our hands, its pores all full of music; stained, like the meerschaum, through and through, with the concentrated hue and sweetness of all the harmonies which have kindled and faded on its strings.
The Violin
J.E. Ball
The Violin, all good musicians say,
While yet in babyhood you must begin;
And so, beneath my little rounded chin,
'Twas promptly tucked, and I began to play
The Violin.
No ear had I, or skill; but Discipline
Recked not of that; and so I sawed away,
And rent the air with Purgatorial din;
Pondering the while, profoundly, day by day,
Of dark recesses, secret nooks, wherein
I might (with Providential aid) mislay
The Violin.
Taking Violin at School
April Halprin Wayland, from Girl Coming in for a Landing - A Novel in Poems
I open my case
tighten my bow
pluck a string to tune.
I love to listen to it chirp across the echoing room.
My friends are in class
reading about
a famous English king.
But I am training this wooden bird upon my arm to sing.
The Corn Stalk Fiddle
Paul Laurence Dunbar
When the corn's all cut and the bright stalks shine
Like the burnished spears of a field of gold;
When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine,
And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold;
Then it 's heigho! fellows and hi-diddle-diddle,
For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.
And you take a stalk that is straight and long,
With an expert eye to its worthy points,
And you think of the bubbling strains of song
That are bound between its pithy joints -
Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle,
With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.
Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow
O'er the yielding strings with a practised hand!
And the music's flow never loud but low
Is the concert note of a fairy band.
Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle
To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle.
When the eve comes on, and our work is done,
And the sun drops down with a tender glance,
With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun,
Come the neighbor girls for the evening's dance,
And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle -
More time than tune - from the corn-stalk fiddle.
Then brother Jabez takes the bow,
While Ned stands off with Susan Bland,
Then Henry stops by Milly Snow,
And Jolm takes Nellie Jones's hand,
While I pair off with Mandy Biddle,
And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn-stalk fiddle.
"Salute your partners," comes the call,
"All join hands and circle round,"
"Grand train back," and "Balance all,"
Footsteps lightly spurn the ground.
"Take your lady and balance down the middle"
To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle.
So the night goes on and the dance is o'er,
And the merry girls are homeward gone,
But I see it all in my sleep once more,
And I dream till the very break of dawn
Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle
To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.
The "Borried" Fiddle
Dee Strickland Johnson
We all went down to Pueblo Park
to hear Don Johnson play;
He's durn sure the finest fiddler
that has wandered out this way!
But I 'spose you've heard Don fiddle;
if you haven't, well you should.
I name him best in the whole Southwest -
and that is mighty good!
Well,this old gent came ambling by,
said his name was L.B. Wray,
'llowed as how he's from Illinois,
and if he had a fiddle, he'd play.
"Well," said that Johnson feller,
"We'd sure like to hear you play!"
And he handed him his fiddle -
all tuned to a perfect "A".
Well, the old man took Don's fiddle
and adjusted all the strings;
He listened carefully and long
before he played a thing.
For it isn't just perfection
that you're listening to hear
It must fit the heart that's playing,
as well as please the ear.
And when he'd tightened up the bow,
and rechecked all the strings,
He took that bow in his old right hand,
and he made that fiddle sing!
Oh, it wasn't to the quality
of Johnson's, understand,
But you had to make allowance
for the trembling of the hands,
And the years without a fiddle,
and the mind a-running back
Over waltzes, reels, and hoedowns
that he'd fiddled in the past.
And when he'd finished playing,
there was silence - then applause,
But you couldn't help but notice
that little bit of pause;
It's the highest form of honor
that an audience imparts
It's a tribute to musicians -
for they know they've touched your hearts.
So I love this sad old picture
of the fiddler L.B. Wray
When he "tuned" that "borried" fiddle,
and he "reckoned" he would play.
Angel with a Fiddle
Bette Wolf Duncan
Tall 'n lean 'n lanky,
with a fiddle 'neath his chin....
the days weren't quite so cruel
when he played his violin.
Depression years - the thirties-
hard times all around.
When Palmer played his fiddle,
trouble filtered through the sound
and somehow seemed more bearable-
more apt t' go away;
and listenin' folks were certain-
there would be a kinder day.
With pennies in their pockets
and debits by the score
when Palmer started fiddlin'
none a' them were poor.
Magical it was, the way
cares filtered through the sound;
till folks were certain, down the road
times 'd turn around.
When Palmer played his fiddle
couldn't hear no angels sing...
but in the harshest winter
it felt a bit like Spring.
The Vagabonds
John Townsend Trowbridge
We are two travellers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog. - Come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentlemen, - mind your eye!
Over the table, - look out for the lamp!
The rogue is growing a little old;
Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
And slept out-doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank - and starved - together.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle
(This out-door business is bad for strings),
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
And Roger and I set up for kings!
No, thank ye, Sir, - I never drink;
Roger and I are exceedingly moral, -
Are n't we, Roger? - See him wink! -
Well, something hot, then, - we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty, too, - see him nod his head?
What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk!
He understands every word that's said, -
And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.
The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,
I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.
There is n't another creature living
Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,
To such a miserable, thankless master!
No, Sir! - see him wag his tail and grin!
By George! it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there's something in this gin
That chokes a fellow. But no matter!
We'll have some music, if you're willing,
And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!)
Shall march a little - Start, you villain!
Paws up! Eyes front! Salute your officer!
'Bout face! Attention! Take your rifle!
(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,
To aid a poor old patriot soldier!
March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps, - that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses! -
Quick, Sir! I'm ill, - my brain is going! -
Some brandy, - thank you, - there! - it passes!
Why not reform? That's easily said;
But I've gone through such wretched treatment,
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread.
And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform;
And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.
Is there a way to forget to think?
At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love, - but I took to drink, -
The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features, -
You need n't laugh, Sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
I was one of your handsome men!
If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed
That ever I, Sir, should be straying
From door to door, with fiddle and dog,
Ragged and penniless, and playing
To you to-night for a glass of grog!
She's married since, - a parson's wife:
'T was better for her that we should part, -
Better the soberest, prosiest life
Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent
On the dusty road: a carriage stopped:
But little she dreamed, as on she went,
Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!
You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry;
It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?
I had a mother so proud of me!
'T was well she died before. - Do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?
Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing in place of a heart?
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt remembering things that were, -
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.
I'm better now; that glass was warming. -
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing
For supper and bed, or starve in the street. -
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?
But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink: -
The sooner, the better for Roger and me!
The Fiddler of Dooney
William Butler Yeats, from The Wind Among the Reeds
When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Moharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time,
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With 'Here is the fiddler of Dooney!'
And dance like a wave of the sea.
To My Father's Violin
Thomas Hardy
Does he want you down there
In the Nether Glooms where
The hours may be a dragging load upon him,
As he hears the axle grind
Round and round
Of the great world, in the blind
Still profound
Of the night-time? He might liven at the sound
Of your string, revealing you had not forgone him.
In the gallery west the nave,
But a few yards from his grave,
Did you, tucked beneath his chin, to his bowing
Guide the homely harmony
Of the quire
Who for long years strenuously -
Son and sire -
Caught the strains that at his fingering low or higher
From your four thin threads and eff-holes came outflowing.
And, too, what merry tunes
He would bow at nights or noons
That chanced to find him bent to lute a measure,
When he made you speak his heart
As in dream,
Without book or music-chart,
On some theme
Elusive as a jack-o'-lanthorn's gleam,
And the psalm of duty shelved for trill of pleasure.
Well, you can not, alas,
The barrier overpass
That screens him in those Mournful Meads hereunder,
Where no fiddling can be heard
In the glades
Of silentness, no bird
Thrills the shades;
Where no viol is touched for songs or serenades,
No bowing wakes a congregation's wonder.
He must do without you now,
Stir you no more anyhow
To yearning concords taught you in your glory;
While, your strings a tangled wreck,
Once smart drawn,
Ten worm-wounds in your neck,
Purflings wan
With dust-hoar, here alone I sadly con
Your present dumbness, shape your olden story.
At the Railway Station, Upway
Thomas Hardy
"There is not much that I can do,
For I've no money that's quite my own!"
Spoke up the pitying child -
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in, -
"But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one 'tis, and good in tone!"
The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too,
As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang
Uproariously:
"This life so free
Is the thing for me!"
And the constable smiled, and said no word,
As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in -
The convict, and boy with the violin.
He Plays the Violin
Sherman Edwards, from 1776
He plays the violin
He tucks it right under his chin
And he bows, oh he bows
For he knows, yes he knows
That it's hi-hi-hi-diddle diddle
It's my heart, Tom and his fiddle
My strings are unstrung
Hi-hi-hi-hi
I am undone
I hear his violin
And I get that feeling within
And I sigh, oh I sigh
He draws near, very near
And it's hi-hi-hi-diddle diddle
Goodbye to the fiddle
My strings are unstrung
Hi-hi-hi-hi
I'm always undone
When heaven calls to me
Sing me no sad eulogy
Say I die, loving bride
Loving wife, loving life
For it was hi-hi-hi-hi-diddle diddle
'Twixt my heart, Tom, and his fiddle
And ever 'twill be
Hi-hi-hi-hi
Through eternity
He plays the violin.
The Fiddler
Lola Ridge, from The Ghetto and Other Poems
In a little Hungarian cafe
Men and women are drinking
Yellow wine in tall goblets.
Through the milky haze of the smoke,
The fiddler, under-sized, blond,
Leans to his violin
As to the breast of a woman.
Red hair kindles to fire
On the black of his coat-sleeve,
Where his white thin hand
Trembles and dives,
Like a sliver of moonlight,
When wind has broken the water.
A Fiddler in the North
Robert Burns (tune: "The King o' France he rade a race")
Amang the trees, where humming bees,
At buds and flowers were hinging, O,
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,
And to her pipe was singing, O:
'Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspeys, and Reels,
She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O:
When there cam' a yell o' foreign squeels,
That dang her tapsalteerie, O.
Their capon craws an' queer "ha, ha's,"
They made our lugs grow eerie, O;
The hungry bike did scrape and fyke,
Till we were wae and weary, O:
But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas'd,
A prisoner, aughteen year awa',
He fir'd a Fiddler in the North,
That dang them tapsalteerie, O.
O Rattlin', Roarin' Willie
Robert Burns
O Rattlin', roarin' Willie,
O he held to the fair,
An' for to sell his fiddle
And buy some other ware;
But parting wi' his fiddle,
The saut tear blin't his e'e;
And Rattlin', roarin' Willie,
Ye're welcome hame to me.
O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
O sell your fiddle sae fine;
O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
And buy a pint o' wine;
If I should sell my fiddle,
The warl' would think I was mad,
For mony a rantin' day
My fiddle and I hae had.
As I cam by Crochallan
I cannily keekit ben,
Rattlin', roarin' Willie
Was sitting at yon boord-en',
Sitting at yon boord-en',
And amang guid companie;
Rattlin', roarin' Willie,
Ye're welcome hame to me!
Stravinsky's Three Pieces "Grotesques", for String Quartet: Second Movement
Amy Lowell
Pale violin music whiffs across the moon,
A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon,
Cherry petals fall and flutter,
And the white Pierrot,
Wreathed in the smoke of the violins,
Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling,
Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth
With his finger-nails.
The Cremona Violin
Amy Lowell, from Men, Women and Ghosts
Part 01
Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door.
A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind
Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before
Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind
The distant town was black, and sharp defined
Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers,
Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers.
A pasted city on a purple ground,
Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud
Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound
Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed,
Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud
Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom.
Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room.
She bustled round to shake by constant moving
The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire,
She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving
Its careful setting, then her own attire
Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher
She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting
A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting
This way or that to suit her. At last sitting,
Or rather plumping down upon a chair,
She took her work, the stocking she was knitting,
And watched the rain upon the window glare
In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare
Of lightning squirmed about her needles. "Oh!"
She cried. "What can be keeping Theodore so!"
A roll of thunder set the casements clapping.
Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran,
Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping
She stood and gazed along the street. A man
Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran
Her down as she stood in the door. "Why, Dear,
What in the name of patience brings you here?
Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin
I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light.
This clasp is very much too worn and thin.
I'll take the other fiddle out to-night
If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite
Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I -
Give me the candle. No, the inside's dry.
Thank God for that! Well, Lotta, how are you?
A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see.
Is my pipe filled, my Dear? I'll have a few
Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea.
What do you say? That you were feared for me?
Nonsense, my child. Yes, kiss me, now don't talk.
I need a rest, the theatre's a long walk."
Her needles still, her hands upon her lap
Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat
And watched the rain-run window. In his nap
Her husband stirred and muttered. Seeing that,
Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat,
Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room
Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom.
But even rainy windows, silver-lit
By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give
But poor content to loneliness, and it
Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive
And down her eagerness and learn to live
In placid quiet. While her husband slept,
Charlotta in her upper chamber wept.
Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man
Gentle and unambitious, that alone
Had kept him back. He played as few men can,
Drawing out of his instrument a tone
So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone
Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air,
Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair.
Above all things, above Charlotta his wife,
Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine
Cremona pattern, Stradivari's life
Was flowering out of early discipline
When this was fashioned. Of soft-cutting pine
The belly was. The back of broadly curled
Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled.
The slanting, youthful sound-holes through
The belly of fine, vigorous pine
Mellowed each note and blew
It out again with a woody flavour
Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are
When breezes in their needles jar.
The varnish was an orange-brown
Lustered like glass that's long laid down
Under a crumbling villa stone.
Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point
Straight up the corners. Each curve and joint
Clear, and bold, and thin.
Such was Herr Theodore's violin.
Seven o'clock, the Concert-Meister gone
With his best violin, the rain being stopped,
Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone
Watching the embers which the fire dropped.
The china shone upon the dresser, topped
By polished copper vessels which her skill
Kept brightly burnished. It was very still.
An air from 'Orfeo' hummed in her head.
Herr Altgelt had been practising before
The night's performance. Charlotta had plead
With him to stay with her. Even at the door
She'd begged him not to go. "I do implore
You for this evening, Theodore," she had said.
"Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead."
"A silly poppet!" Theodore pinched her ear.
"You'd like to have our good Elector turn
Me out I think." "But, Theodore, something queer
Ails me. Oh, do but notice how they burn,
My cheeks! The thunder worried me. You're stern,
And cold, and only love your work, I know.
But Theodore, for this evening, do not go."
But he had gone, hurriedly at the end,
For she had kept him talking. Now she sat
Alone again, always alone, the trend
Of all her thinking brought her back to that
She wished to banish. What would life be? What?
For she was young, and loved, while he was moved
Only by music. Each day that was proved.
Each day he rose and practised. While he played,
She stopped her work and listened, and her heart
Swelled painfully beneath her bodice. Swayed
And longing, she would hide from him her smart.
"Well, Lottchen, will that do?" Then what a start
She gave, and she would run to him and cry,
And he would gently chide her, "Fie, Dear, fie.
I'm glad I played it well. But such a taking!
You'll hear the thing enough before I've done."
And she would draw away from him, still shaking.
Had he but guessed she was another one,
Another violin. Her strings were aching,
Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again
He played and she almost broke at the strain.
Where was the use of thinking of it now,
Sitting alone and listening to the clock!
She'd best make haste and knit another row.
Three hours at least must pass before his knock
Would startle her. It always was a shock.
She listened - listened - for so long before,
That when it came her hearing almost tore.
She caught herself just starting in to listen.
What nerves she had: rattling like brittle sticks!
She wandered to the window, for the glisten
Of a bright moon was tempting. Snuffed the wicks
Of her two candles. Still she could not fix
To anything. The moon in a broad swath
Beckoned her out and down the garden-path.
Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high
And black, their shadows doubling them. The night
Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh
Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight
Of insects, and the smell of aconite,
And stocks, and Marvel of Peru. She flitted
Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted
The even flags. She let herself go dreaming
Of Theodore her husband, and the tune
From 'Orfeo' swam through her mind, but seeming
Changed - shriller. Of a sudden, the clear moon
Showed her a passer-by, inopportune
Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding.
Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding.
"The best laid plans of mice and men," alas!
The stranger came indeed, but did not pass.
Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate,
Folding his arms and whistling. Lotta's state,
Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass,
Was far from pleasant. Still the stranger stayed,
And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed.
He seemed a proper fellow standing there
In the bright moonshine. His cocked hat was laced
With silver, and he wore his own brown hair
Tied, but unpowdered. His whole bearing graced
A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased
Sword-hilt. Charlotta looked, but her position
Was hardly easy. When would his volition
Suggest his walking on? And then that tune!
A half-a-dozen bars from 'Orfeo'
Gone over and over, and murdered. What Fortune
Had brought him there to stare about him so?
"Ach, Gott im Himmel! Why will he not go!"
Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on,
And seemed in no great hurry to be gone.
Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes,
Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig.
If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes
Streamed over her. He would not care a fig,
He'd only laugh. She pushed aside a sprig
Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose
Amid her bushes. "Sir," said she, "pray whose
Garden do you suppose you're watching? Why
Do you stand there? I really must insist
Upon your leaving. 'Tis unmannerly
To stay so long." The young man gave a twist
And turned about, and in the amethyst
Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen
From the green bushes which had been her prison.
He swept his hat off in a hurried bow.
"Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea
I was not quite alone, and that is how
I came to stay. My trespass was not sheer
Impertinence. I thought no one was here,
And really gardens cry to be admired.
To-night especially it seemed required.
And may I beg to introduce myself?
Heinrich Marohl of Munich. And your name?"
Charlotta told him. And the artful elf
Promptly exclaimed about her husband's fame.
So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came
To conversation with him. When she went
Into the house, she found the evening spent.
Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased,
With all excitement in him burned away.
It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased,
And he had played his very best to-day,
But afterwards he had been forced to stay
And practise with the stupid ones. His head
Ached furiously, and he must get to bed.
Part 02
Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt played,
And the four strings of his violin
Were spinning like bees on a day in Spring.
The notes rose into the wide sun-mote
Which slanted through the window,
They lay like coloured beads a-row,
They knocked together and parted,
And started to dance,
Skipping, tripping, each one slipping
Under and over the others so
That the polychrome fire streamed like a lance
Or a comet's tail,
Behind them.
Then a wail arose - crescendo -
And dropped from off the end of the bow,
And the dancing stopped.
A scent of lilies filled the room,
Long and slow. Each large white bloom
Breathed a sound which was holy perfume from a blessed censer,
And the hum of an organ tone,
And they waved like fans in a hall of stone
Over a bier standing there in the centre, alone.
Each lily bent slowly as it was blown.
Like smoke they rose from the violin -
Then faded as a swifter bowing
Jumbled the notes like wavelets flowing
In a splashing, pashing, rippling motion
Between broad meadows to an ocean
Wide as a day and blue as a flower,
Where every hour
Gulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and squealed,
And over the marshes the Angelus pealed,
And the prows of the fishing-boats were spattered
With spray.
And away a couple of frigates were starting
To race to Java with all sails set,
Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs,
And wide moonsails; and the shining rails
Were polished so bright they sparked in the sun.
All the sails went up with a run:
"They call me Hanging Johnny,
Away-i-oh;
They call me Hanging Johnny,
So hang, boys, hang."
And the sun had set and the high moon whitened,
And the ship heeled over to the breeze.
He drew her into the shade of the sails,
And whispered tales
Of voyages in the China seas,
And his arm around her
Held and bound her.
She almost swooned,
With the breeze and the moon
And the slipping sea,
And he beside her,
Touching her, leaning -
The ship careening,
With the white moon steadily shining over
Her and her lover,
Theodore, still her lover!
Then a quiver fell on the crowded notes,
And slowly floated
A single note which spread and spread
Till it filled the room with a shimmer like gold,
And noises shivered throughout its length,
And tried its strength.
They pulled it, and tore it,
And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore it.
Then a wide rent
Split the arching tent,
And balls of fire spurted through,
Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue.
One by one they were quenched as they fell,
Only the blue burned steadily.
Paler and paler it grew, and - faded - away.
Herr Altgelt stopped.
"Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say?
I think I'm in good trim. Now let's have dinner.
What's this, my Love, you're very sweet to-day.
I wonder how it happens I'm the winner
Of so much sweetness. But I think you're thinner;
You're like a bag of feathers on my knee.
Why, Lotta child, you're almost strangling me.
I'm glad you're going out this afternoon.
The days are getting short, and I'm so tied
At the Court Theatre my poor little bride
Has not much junketing I fear, but soon
I'll ask our manager to grant a boon.
To-night, perhaps, I'll get a pass for you,
And when I go, why Lotta can come too.
Now dinner, Love. I want some onion soup
To whip me up till that rehearsal's over.
You know it's odd how some women can stoop!
Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover,
A Jew named Goldstein. No one can discover
If it's his money. But she lives alone
Practically. Gebnitz is a stone,
Pores over books all day, and has no ear
For his wife's singing. Artists must have men;
They need appreciation. But it's queer
What messes people make of their lives, when
They should know more. If Gebnitz finds out, then
His wife will pack. Yes, shut the door at once.
I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce."
Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and went
Into the streets. A bright, crisp Autumn wind
Flirted her skirts and hair. A turbulent,
Audacious wind it was, now close behind,
Pushing her bonnet forward till it twined
The strings across her face, then from in front
Slantingly swinging at her with a shunt,
Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing,
Dismayed to find her clothing tightly bound
Around her, every fold and wrinkle crushing
Itself upon her, so that she was wound
In draperies as clinging as those found
Sucking about a sea nymph on the frieze
Of some old Grecian temple. In the breeze
The shops and houses had a quality
Of hard and dazzling colour; something sharp
And buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea.
The city streets were twanging like a harp.
Charlotta caught the movement, skippingly
She blew along the pavement, hardly knowing
Toward what destination she was going.
She fetched up opposite a jeweller's shop,
Wh