Sympathy for the Fiddle

The badly played violin gets no sympathy,

                                                                                        tears shed over flat pitch?

Eyes – do –

make coaches

                                met with strain,

like the strain of a musicians finger                                     – rosewood,

and if sympathy be sought,

                                                                                                             no further than Baroque

Timbre who breaks low

(The howl of forlorn wolves)

 

What of the violin!                                    Closeness to the voice –

Sotto voce.

Full fortissimo.

Falsetto.

Horse hair – breaking – under – weight – twitching – fingers

In mad manic melodies

                                                  stream tears
 
                                                                                         from the bow

 

A pupil of the fiddle moves

                                         not

                                          Heart

nor illicit the frisson we know – so – well,

                                           when pleasure strikes a chord in us.

Taciturn the captive audience,

an abject concert,

insouciant ears,

frighten the fiddler,

virtuosity in any degree,

                                                                                             lost on them.

 

Culpable not is the violinist of this loss

– the audience –

Maybe to hear,

                                 in us

                                            it is

                                                       more than

                                          it is

                                                                             to ascribed these players

Beauty, found beneath

                                         a note                                 too sharp,

maybe my longing for art,                                       has made me soft?