Violin~

Père bought the victrola from Mr. Johnson himself

in 1921

father in young boy guise

wound the handle

on weeping operettas

his books in his lap

scattered young man

music in his onyx eyes

notations in eight notes on the backs of his alabaster hands

 

On a trip to Meircourt in 1947

he begged for the violin on display

at a dinner with the Claudot family

insisting one day

his daughter would make the world cry

with bow to strings

Père, as always

obliged his boy’s whims

 

In an old manor of stone

somewhere between a dream

and madness

father  unlatched silver leaf clasps

opened the ash wood case

from red velvet

cherry wood curves emerged

strings speaking silent entreaties

the bow in my hand curved in a kiss

for my attention

 

Father winding victrola handle

record spinning

in dizzy eddies

he said

“listen”

I listened

violin solo

weeping

my body absorbed each teardrop of music

he said

“play it back”

I did

he sobbed

he clapped his hands

and for a time

my recitations from Gilgamesh of Uruk

were replaced

by me and my weeping violin

at those dinners

where the wolves mingled freely with the fine gentlemen

and their ladies

 

In 1974 I was torn out of my soil

transplanted elsewhere

forgetting wolves

father

violins

myths

across the hardscapes of an alien topography

that soaked me up like a sponge

hollowed me

filled me with different colors

flavors

textures

 

In 1989 the Wall fell

in 1989 father collapsed in on himself

deathbed dreams

onyx eyes

he pulled the ash case

from the mahogany chest of many secrets

too weak to wind the victrola

my arms spun like dervish dancers

the solo

the weeping solo

“listen”

he said

I listened

remembering myself

my pores drinking my original topography

my scent

perfume in Dacian myths

recorporating

he said

“play it back”

I did

he sobbed

he clapped

my only audience

wolves dead as dreams

lords and ladies gone to ground

 

In December of 1989

I tucked my father into a velvet lined casket

I tucked my violin into its ash case

where it has slept for decades now

in a mahogany chest of many secrets

beside a victrola

Père brought from Mr. Johnson himself

in 1921

 

 

copyright:2010vssmd/amusemusepress

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Reviews

[Molafvt]

OMG Selene; What an incredibly beautiful and comprehensive piece. This touched me deeply. The way you scanned the years and followed the source of the Victrola and his penchant for music, to the discovery of the Violin; the support and love of your father and your attraction to the instrument is Mythic. Your attention to description made this a most colorful and telling work. From the moment I began the read this wonderful poem, i was held in it's captive gripe Truly a masterful write. i felt like I had taken a world wide trip with you and your weeping Violin, through your life's drama and into your heart.
This is a most incredible write-truly and undeniably. have you picked up the Violin since? Thank you so much for sharing this very personal piece and charging it with such wonderful alliteration and colorful description.

"music in his onyx eyes notations in eight notes on the backs of his alabaster hands"

You captured and held me here and I am still reeling from the journey.

[luciddreamer]

Beautiful, vivid,...awesome :).......love the lineage use
Peace
Robin

[Robin]

this is so beautifully written , the images literally unfolded before my eyes as if they were from my own memories ~ heart felt ~