~

verse 1
in the town of Chateau Thierry,
along the banks of the Marne,
just up the road from Paris,
a’ fore it meets the Seine;
’twas here our soldiers fought
in nineteen-seventeen;
'twas here they took the Kaiser,
in the trenches, rain and mud.
the Great War, then they called it,
here the river ran with blood;
with bayonet and shovel,
here an Allied victory made;
to halt the enemy’s advancement,
here too many made their grave.

instrument of bow and strings,
in composition history sings.
if, one-day strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin!
stories told will ne’er grow old,
tales of courage that build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows despite the dark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power to strike the heart.

verse 2
near the town of Chateau Thierry
in a convent, St Joseph by name
a violin by Francois Barzoni,
a resident luthier by trade.
prized possession of the Sisters,
they tuned well it's strings.
their convent walls withstood the bombs,
though leaving here their mark;
defaced but not destroyed,
and so with grateful hearts,
the Sisters of St Joseph,
for brick and mortar trade,
gathered up their treasures
their convent to remake.

instrument of bow and strings,
with composure history sings.
if, only strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin;
stories told will ne’er grow old,
tales of hope that build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows to light the dark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power; rebuild the heart.

verse 3
from the town of Chateau Thierry,
they advertised their local gem,
“wanted: no strings attached;
no saint expected, no requiem.
just two hands to cherish,
and a patron of our instrument.”
this their prayer, “oh Lord, one wish,
may our search meet no resistance.
may we find a young apprentice,
please reward our long persistence.”
and so they found their debutant;
prayer answered in Saint Louis.
a boy who understood its voice,
with their strings again make music.

instrument of bow and strings,
of your journey history sings.
if, only strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin;
stories told will ne’er grow old,
tales of old they build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows and find your mark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power to soothe the heart.

verse 4
near the town of Chateau Thierry,
along the banks of the Marne;
ply this channel of the masters,
play us a river, Lowell Meyer;
once a boy, become grand-father,
then a treasure to receive;
heirloom placed within your trust,
your prize possession to bequeath
to yet another debutant,
its strings to pluck and bow to draw.
he a master of persistence,
who with practice met resistance;
yesterday’s grandson, beloved progeny;
tomorrow’s hope, an admired prodigy.

instrument of bow and strings,
with clarity your voice still sings.
if, only strings could talk like men,
if, we could sing like violin;
stories told will ne’er grow old,
for these are tales that build the soul,
of standing tall and shouldering on,
to play an orchestrated song.
all you archers raise your strings,
draw your bows and make your mark,
soldiers of a genteel king,
wield your power to touch the heart.

~

post script.

A violin…  an instrument of hollowed wooded frame, strung with five strings made of gut, played by the drawing of a bow of hair crosswise over strings tuned in perfect fifths; an instrument of song with uniquely, beautiful voice.  Whether played as a violin with symphonic overture in a seventy-piece orchestra in Carnegie Hall, or as a fiddle in a four-piece southern country band at a barn dance down in a Kentucky hollow, in the hands of a violinist… a master… a virtuoso… a fiddler, it becomes an hallowed instrument… of diplomacy… of peace.

When I heard the faint whisperings of story about a nephew’s instrument I pledged to learn the details of its journey.  Charlie obliged, allowing me to interview him one evening early this month.

The instrument came complete with an old typed letter from Lowell Meyer, Charlie’s maternal grandfather, whose family purchased the instrument on his behalf, from the Sisters of St. Joseph when he was yet in middle school in 1923.  An instrument in its own rite, the letter also acts as a legal document, sharing not only the violin’s European heritage and how it came to arrive in these United States, but also dictating its future journey, naming only three possibilities of conveyance.  First, while in the possession of his family, the violin is to be owned by all of Mr. Meyer’s children and their heirs rather than by any one single heir.  Second, it allows a method for its sale should an urgent financial need arise.  And third, it dictates the intent of Mr. Meyers for the violin’s return to its original owner into perpetuity, the Sisters of St. Joseph near Chateau Thierry.  Charlie scanned the letter and emailed it to me, giving me a greater sense of its history and helping to establish its authenticity.   Its making by well known French luthier Francois Barzoni, who unlike the Stradivari family made his hand-crafted instruments for the masses, its survival within the convent walls during the bombardment of the Battle of the Marne and its subsequent journey from Chateau Thierry, to Saint Louis, each detail carrying great significance. As an example of one detail among many, it did not escape the attention of this story lover, the significance of a journey from its setting on one river to a similar setting on another, from along  the banks of the Marne before it spills into the Seine, winding through the fertile rolling hills north of Paris, to the fertile banks of the Missouri at its confluence with the Mississippi in St Louis, two famous rivers, a half a world apart, each with their own folklore of simple people living a simple life, of battles fought by simple people with uncommon valor.

*This simple story of “the violin” is a story worth telling; just one facet of Charlie’s interesting heritage; one which has its own voice, and is a tale that begged to be written.

In the corner collecting dust all alone
This violin has seen fame being entertaining and full blown
The violin has played Lincoln Center and Carnegie Hall
It even has seen all over the world by all
The violin even played solo behind various themes
A violin voice of melody of its own
But years of neglect into the dust years
There is no preserver
The violin’s time has come an sad end
Sits with no purpose
A violin that enthused the world
Now forgotten strings
The violin had the spotlight doing its thing
Alone now, but the violin proved without a doubt
It showed what music was all about.

I find serenity in the most beautiful way
It's the sound of violin
How I wish I could describe it easily
But truely, no words can describe how peaceful i felt

Violin, it is different
Unlike piano, it is soulful
Unlike guitar, it is magical
Unlike drums, it is softer

And to those who knows how to play the violin
You are the lucky ones
I would do anything to play the violin
And learn everyday with various notes and songs

The sound of violin, it is like love
But more powerful than love itself
It touches the soul beneath you
To the core of your heart
And spreads to all parts of your body.

*P/S : You should listen to this violin cover :) I promise, you will not regret it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2AorwiUmDA

Bridle the night winds

The man walked into the cancer ward it spoke of him as a large man shoulder length hair distinguished crisp white shirt but the
Important thing was what he carried he set it down opened the case took out the bow and the violin this to me is the one instrument
That almost can match almost all dilemmas that befall man he stood in that ward and started to play these men were engulfed
In tragic and severe night winds the violin can mimic the wind it can go from sheer to broad deep sounds and then with the change of
A finger to a different string and depending on the amount of pressure a tune of pleasure emanates it goes through pain like a ship’s
Bow cuts through rough deep waters rolling to both sides and the sound goes deep within beyond the outer trunk of the body to
The reservoir of the spirit and soul let me describe it from a special story a young man of our faith was caught in the evil ways
Of a serial killer in Houston’s outskirts he was trust up like an animal for slaughter as he hang there and was being tortured though
The body was experiencing agony down in his soul he was with his savior in worship and it wasn’t the lowly Galilean of meekness we
Are so familiar with but this Jesus John said and I turned to see the voice that spake with me and being turned I saw seven golden
Candlesticks And in the midst of the seven candlesticks [one] like unto the Son of man, clothed
With a garment down to the foot, and girt about the pap’s with a golden girdle. His head and His hairs were
white like wool as white as snow and his eyes were as a flame of fire and his feet like unto fine brass as if they burned in a
Furnace and his voice as the sounds of many waters. And He had in his right hand seven stars and out of His mouth went a
Sharp twoedged sword and his countenance was as the sun shineth in strength the soul of this suffering tormented one
Was in a unique place of blessing although the outward man perish the spirit will be renewed he escaped and lived to
Praise and extol God and his power over evil the violin has the power to illuminate the soul in dark circumstances then
You are positioned to call for the master’s aid they say the bow string best for the deep more moving pieces are taken
From dark hairs from horse’s tail in my mind’s eye I see a great black stallion standing on a great protruding rock looking
Down on the valley below behind him is a sweep of more rocks holding much pine in dark silhouette as they sweep even
Higher the full moon shines through the pine he paws the ground he shakes his massive head shoulder and mane
Exhibiting His power the evidence of his dominance shows on his neck where plainly you can see bites and hoof marks
From battles fought and won that made him supreme monarch of this range thats where to get the hair for the bow
Especially in the next setting the prison cat walk is dimly lit the violin races fast and mean and deep there are times
When violent fists are the only measure available when you must bend another to your will and destroy his and at other
Times words gentle and kind disarm your opponent by wisdom he can be made to lay down his claim to his ill thought
Desires you pass the cell those piercing searching eyes fasten on you your movements annoy your free they live in
A cage with steel bars and they are not free the tempo rises as you pass on and out of site music has soul and on this
Occasion it dims convulses dies with a lonely whimper only walls of stone record.

There is another wall this one closes in the rich in his house filled to over flowing the man battled long and hard to reach
These rare heights and then finds it’s an empty world and back along the path of life a neglected family fell in disarray
There nothing like dysfunctional tied in a beautiful bow of materialism no one pities but the violinist in the cancer ward
Was asked to play a certain piece with French as the main theme the violin has a high sharp very thin note for the rich
But empty it would be the French Alps cold austere terribly distant a true hollow plaintive almost crying plea lost in the
Vast expanse but still a soul void of understanding things never go with or warm a heart only love is needed tonight I set in
Church I didn’t at first realize my bible was twenty years old it is just a little full bible although it’s the size of a new
Testament the black leather has taken a beating cracked split on each edge but as I turned it the over head light caught
The gold leaf edged paper I have never been big on gold but there can’t be any material like it how soft how rich the
Color It touched and moved me there was an auction an old violin like my bible had seen better days with indifference
The Auctioneer calls do I hear three dollars no response but after a little time an old gentlemen rose walked up picked up
The Violin started to play the sounds that drifted were as heaven cracked and the treasured sound was pouring in well
when The old man stopped and laid the violin down the auctioneer resumed but now he said who will give a thousand the
Bidding stopped at three thousand what happened was the question well it was the master who played it because he knows
Best and He put in the secrets to start with you look at yourself your pretty happy but your gold needs his light the silver bow
The diamond crusted frog and the great stallion’s contribution is lost in this world but not for much longer

Mercy is blowing in the night wind

The man walked into the cancer ward it spoke of him as a large man shoulder length hair distinguished crisp white shirt but the
Important thing was what he carried he set it down opened the case took out the bow and the violin this to me is the one instrument
That almost can match almost all dilemmas that befall man he stood in that ward and started to play these men were engulfed
In tragic and severe night winds the violin can mimic the wind it can go from sheer to broad deep sounds and then with the change of
A finger to a different string and depending on the amount of pressure a tune of pleasure emanates it goes through pain like a ship’s
Bow cuts through rough deep waters rolling to both sides and the sound goes deep within beyond the outer trunk of the body to
The reservoir of the spirit and soul let me describe it from a special story a young man of our faith was caught in the evil ways
Of a serial killer in Houston’s outskirts he was trust up like an animal for slaughter as he hang there and was being tortured though
The body was experiencing agony down in his soul he was with his savior in worship and it wasn’t the lowly Galilean of meekness we
Are so familiar with but this Jesus John said and I turned to see the voice that spake with me and being turned I saw seven golden
Candlesticks And in the midst of the seven candlesticks [one] like unto the Son of man, clothed
With a garment down to the foot, and girt about the pap’s with a golden girdle. His head and His hairs were
white like wool as white as snow and his eyes were as a flame of fire and his feet like unto fine brass as if they burned in a
Furnace and his voice as the sounds of many waters. And He had in his right hand seven stars and out of His mouth went a
Sharp twoedged sword and his countenance was as the sun shineth in strength the soul of this suffering tormented one
Was in a unique place of blessing although the outward man perish the spirit will be renewed he escaped and lived to
Praise and extol God and his power over evil the violin has the power to illuminate the soul in dark circumstances then
You are positioned to call for the master’s aid they say the bow string best for the deep more moving pieces are taken
From dark hairs from horse’s tail in my mind’s eye I see a great black stallion standing on a great protruding rock looking
Down on the valley below behind him is a sweep of more rocks holding much pine in dark silhouette as they sweep even
Higher the full moon shines through the pine he paws the ground he shakes his massive head shoulder and mane
Exhibiting His power the evidence of his dominance shows on his neck where plainly you can see bites and hoof marks
From battles fought and won that made him supreme monarch of this range thats where to get the hair for the bow
Especially in the next setting the prison cat walk is dimly lit the violin races fast and mean and deep there are times
When violent fists are the only measure available when you must bend another to your will and destroy his and at other
Times words gentle and kind disarm your opponent by wisdom he can be made to lay down his claim to his ill thought
Desires you pass the cell those piercing searching eyes fasten on you your movements annoy your free they live in
A cage with steel bars and they are not free the tempo rises as you pass on and out of site music has soul and on this
Occasion it dims convulses dies with a lonely whimper only walls of stone record.

There is another wall this one closes in the rich in his house filled to over flowing the man battled long and hard to reach
These rare heights and then finds it’s an empty world and back along the path of life a neglected family fell in disarray
There nothing like dysfunctional tied in a beautiful bow of materialism no one pities but the violinist in the cancer ward
Was asked to play a certain piece with French as the main theme the violin has a high sharp very thin note for the rich
But empty it would be the French Alps cold austere terribly distant a true hollow plaintive almost crying plea lost in the
Vast expanse but still a soul void of understanding things never go with or warm a heart only love is needed tonight I set in
Church I didn’t at first realize my bible was twenty years old it is just a little full bible although it’s the size of a new
Testament the black leather has taken a beating cracked split on each edge but as I turned it the over head light caught
The gold leaf edged paper I have never been big on gold but there can’t be any material like it how soft how rich the
Color It touched and moved me there was an auction an old violin like my bible had seen better days with indifference
The Auctioneer calls do I hear three dollars no response but after a little time an old gentlemen rose walked up picked up
The Violin started to play the sounds that drifted were as heaven cracked and the treasured sound was pouring in well
when The old man stopped and laid the violin down the auctioneer resumed but now he said who will give a thousand the
Bidding stopped at three thousand what happened was the question well it was the master who played it because he knows
Best and He put in the secrets to start with you look at yourself your pretty happy but your gold needs his light the silver bow
The diamond crusted frog and the great stallion’s contribution is lost in this world but not for much longer

Mercy is blowing in the night wind

Her name was Mad Violin
We had met at a bar
Where I was half past midnight at drunk
And she had spilt smoke
And smoked whisky
And I remember her talking
About suicide and music
And writing and art
I was halfway through a strange dream
And she was completely undressed
And we were ******* our way
Through the nightmares
Of hope and illusion
She stood there watching
Our bodies tangle and sweat
As she played the violin
And strangled the life out of me with its strings
I woke up stiff and hungover
In an empty bed
The dream still clawing at my back
Her ghost still playing
That ****** violin
It was in all the papers
And on the all the news
Another death
Another suicude
Another note with a name
And a goodbye
I didn't have to read
Or listen or watch
I already knew
Mad Violin
Wouldn't be playing again
She was gone

Gone...
  Gone...
              gone...

I wiped off a tear
Before it crawled out onto my face
And choked back a sob
And pretended to laugh
She got out of the lie
Out from under the strings
Burned her name and violin and stage
And set the whole world ablaze
No one noticed her before
But now everyone claimed
To know her name
And I couldn't actually remember
So I just called her Mad Violin

Rhythm flow but caught me unexpectedly,music but the essence of soul taken by heart beat, bit by bit it beat healthy cause of its flow ......The Violins called it the food for the soul....

My emotions turn to be emotional, yes I cry ,My Heart beat gentle then I turn to be gentle with my wearing fashion,My passion is where I'm passionate but to The Violin .......

Halls and concert full crying emotionally,automatically by hearing the sound of The Violin  The Violin created the wearing fashion of Gentleness and personality.....black and white suit with bore tie,ladies with beautiful dresses and shining shoes with a movement of tales but of Violin

We love ,cry ,caring and showing kindness on each other because of the sound we heard from THE VIOLIN.......

Bartolomeo
he woke to a howl
he saw that Italy was in Night
So he lit a candle
starred through his window
saw Women in love
Dogs wandering
a man playing a Violin
the color of every woman's hair
as she crossed him

Bartolomeo
stood up from his tiny bed and put on his shoes
opened his wooden door and looked over Venice
the air was thick with sleep
thin with open Eyes

he stepped out into the Night
crossing a river
where a Frog laughed
where a Bird chirped

He was headed to a ball
filled with beautiful women
the richest of wine a man could taste

He crossed the river
passed a few homes:
children sleeping
mothers fathers love making
drunks drinking
birds flying to their nests

Bartolomeo
decided to take a short cut to the Ball
went into the woods
where he got lost

The sun came up
hungry
thirsty and dry to the skin

Night came again

Bartolomeo
kept walking
following the smells and sounds of homes

Then an Angel showed her self to him
The Angel had said she was “Mousai”

Bartolomeo asked The Angel if she was the Angel of Death
She laughed
saying
“Quite the opposite”

and she whispered into both of his ears
fell to his knees
and collapsed onto his belly

When he woke
he was back in his bed

With the Violin player out of his window
and the women in love
the dog wandering
with the Ball still in order

Then he had the strangest urge

he looked into his breast pocket and found a drawing of a strange looking box with legs and strings

it read
'gravicembalo col piano e forte'

So he took it to a Violin maker

Bartolomeo showed him the paper

the Violin maker asked him what it was

and Bartolomeo explained to him that the Angel of Death came to see him in his dreams and left this in his pocket

that the Angel of Death whispered a strange Tune in his ear
which made him fall to his knees and belly

He told the Violin maker that this is the Tune you heard before your Death

The Violin maker
was cautious at first
so Bartolomeo offered him gold to build it
So the violin maker did so

When Bartolomeo's project was finished

He trusted it to be the voice of Death
that any man who heard it
was to die

So he took it out to the middle of the Forest
thick with trees


Pressed a key
the hairs on his neck stood

he waited for her
for Death

She never came

So he pressed another key

a slightly different pitch

Then another
it was thicker
more hollow

and to the far left
was higher
sharper than the others

then Bartolomeo ran his fingers across all of the keys

his eyes closed in fright
in ecstasy

Bartolomeo
left it there
for the night

and went back to his little home
and slept

in his Dream
a Tune played
it played through his bones
his hair
the eye lashes on his skull
the thin layer of skin on his lips
the palms of his hands
Throat
Stomach and Legs

The next day he stayed inside
worried that Death was outside his door

He waited for the moon to be dominate

He entered the woods

To find his musical Death Siren

Still there

And he sat at this Death Siren

Pressed a key
The Night seemed to hover over him
Like the lights of a Play
Like the Rifles of an execution
Like the Lips of a Woman
Like the Eyes of a child

He pressed another

Then he remembered the song in his Dream
and Pressed another key

Closing his eyes
he heard the song behind his eye lids
on the lobes of his ears
the end of his nose
and the tips of his fingers

And he played the Tune
What he thought that Death
had whispered into his ear
and down his spine like dripping wax on a tree stump

The Trees bent closer to hear
The Roses
The Birds
The Snakes
The Rats
The Moon
The Def
The Blind
The Mad
The Moth
The Dog
The Feline

Bent closer into the night
and gazed into the Forest

The Night was filled with his Tune
a mix of sorrow
of lasting hope
of a lover walking into the arms of Eternity's Death Canoe
of Sunrise
of starvation cured by bread and wine and cheese and meat
of *** and lust and love and lips
of death of tears of lonely nights
of war veterans
of sailors of painters of mothers of fathers
a mix of
Death and the smell of coffee
of
A woman and a lake
of
The Fountain of Youth and cigarettes
of
Adam and Eve
of
Insomnia and a runny nose
of
Waking up
and Falling asleep.