Your soul was lifted by the wings today
Hearing the master of the violin:
You praised him, praised the great Sabastian too
Who made that fine Chaconne; but did you think
Of old Antonio Stradivari? -him
Who a good century and a half ago
Put his true work in that brown instrument
And by the nice adjustment of its frame
Gave it responsive life, continuous
With the master's finger-tips and perfected
Like them by delicate rectitude of use.
That plain white-aproned man, who stood at work
Patient and accurate full fourscore years,
Cherished his sight and touch by temperance,
And since keen sense is love of perfectness
Made perfect violins, the needed paths
For inspiration and high mastery.

No simpler man than he; he never cried,
"why was I born to this monotonous task
Of making violins?" or flung them down
To suit with hurling act well-hurled curse
At labor on such perishable stuff.
Hence neighbors in Cremona held him dull,
Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a machine.

Naldo, a painter of eclectic school,
Knowing all tricks of style at thirty-one,
And weary of them, while Antonio
At sixty-nine wrought placidly his best,
Making the violin you heard today -
Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aims.
"Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed -
the love of louis d'ors in heaps of four,
Each violin a heap - I've naught to blame;
My vices waste such heaps. But then, why work
With painful nicety?"

Antonio then:
"I like the gold - well, yes - but not for meals.
And as my stomach, so my eye and hand,
And inward sense that works along with both,
Have hunger that can never feed on coin.
Who draws a line and satisfies his soul,
Making it crooked where it should be straight?
Antonio Stradivari has an eye
That winces at false work and loves the true."
Then Naldo: "'Tis a petty kind of fame
At best, that comes of making violins;
And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go
To purgatory none the less."

But he:
"'Twere purgatory here to make them ill;
And for my fame - when any master holds
'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine,
He will be glad that Stradivari lived,
Made violins, and made them of the best.
The masters only know whose work is good:
They will choose mine, and while God gives them skill
I give them instruments to play upon,
God choosing me to help him.

"What! Were God
at fault for violins, thou absent?"

"Yes;
He were at fault for Stradivari's work."

"Why, many hold Giuseppe's violins
As good as thine."

"May be: they are different.
His quality declines: he spoils his hand
With over-drinking. But were his the best,
He could not work for two. My work is mine,
And, heresy or not, if my hand slacked
I should rob God - since his is fullest good -
Leaving a blank instead of violins.
I say, not God himself can make man's best
Without best men to help him.

'Tis God gives skill,
But not without men's hands: he could not make
Antonio Stradivari's violins
Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel."

His crown sat bent -
    and it looked quite odd
          on the shady side
          of his sparse baldhead

His ego reigned
     while his daughter sweet
          could not make the move
          to get past her dread

His aproned slave
     dared not make a sound
          to defy the rules
          'til he made her dead

His cranium
     suffered sudden blows
          when an illness struck
          with the news ahead

He spat in barks
     telling all who came
          they should breathe their last
          and he died instead

Hist? . . .
Through the corridor's echoes,
Louder and nearer
Comes a great shuffling of feet.
Quick, every one of you,
Strighten your quilts, and be decent!
Here's the Professor.

In he comes first
With the bright look we know,
From the broad, white brows the kind eyes
Soothing yet nerving you.  Here at his elbow,
White-capped, white-aproned, the Nurse,
Towel on arm and her inkstand
Fretful with quills.
Here in the ruck, anyhow,
Surging along,
Louts, duffers, exquisites, students, and prigs--
Whiskers and foreheads, scarf-pins and spectacles--
Hustles the Class!  And they ring themselves
Round the first bed, where the Chief
(His dressers and clerks at attention),
Bends in inspection already.

So shows the ring
Seen from behind round a conjurer
Doing his pitch in the street.
High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones,
Round, square, and angular, serry and shove;
While from within a voice,
Gravely and weightily fluent,
Sounds; and then ceases; and suddenly
(Look at the stress of the shoulders!)
Out of a quiver of silence,
Over the hiss of the spray,
Comes a low cry, and the sound
Of breath quick intaken through teeth
Clenched in resolve.  And the Master
Breaks from the crowd, and goes,
Wiping his hands,
To the next bed, with his pupils
Flocking and whispering behind him.

Now one can see.
Case Number One
Sits (rather pale) with his bedclothes
Stripped up, and showing his foot
(Alas for God's Image!)
Swaddled in wet, white lint
Brilliantly hideous with red.

I am bored
well beyond the lines of acceptable decor.
The doodles of your insinuations
rearranging constantly behind my eyes.

I found lust scribbled
upon a bathroom door;
caught your scent roaming
long and semi~stimulating
corridors...

And thought on
dreams not unlike the many
tides spent upon shores too gritty;
the empty
eyes seamed to horizons
you would never watch re~rise
along with me...

My simply hewn sun;

Saturn is a turn too distant
to your umber satellite cusp.

And Venus, just a trace
of voluptuous orbit an inch
outside the reach of your tongue.

If I thought to provide a hint...
It might be seen as
a moonlight trail gracing tips
of canyon sharp night.
A bend and gasp of heaven height

that never quite fits.

after a certain film
a boy walked outside
worked the knots
from the yard hose
put the pistol grip
nozzle
in his mouth.

during the film
his mother aproned
a wet baseball.

before the film
his father attended
the occasional
but forbidden
house fire.

you talk
like lions roar
and shrug
like there's nothing
in the earth below
your heavy lisp
rings through the room
even as aproned women
scrape their brooms
you talk of recovery
you talk of gain
you talk like
you have never been pained
you talk of casinos
the tring of money
you talk of wealth
like it were milk and honey
you talk the talk
and then talk the walk
we make through the woods
you talk again
this time of stolen goods
we cross the river
you talk
we feel the night shiver
you talk
we dream of sleep
you talk
we avoid counting sheep
you talk

you talk
until we see
the sun come up
it is a crisp morning
ready to fill the cup
i wait to hear
from a world
i don't live in
but i am met
with a silence
that is
most enlivening
and that is
when i see you
for the first time
for what you are
your eyes
grey much dull
hiding the
ancient sadness
of giving up

how much is the book today,
ten pounds to you. there

were more all sold. the old
dealer did a moonlight flit.

how much is the book today,
fifteen pounds, simple pictures,
will you take a bottle?

a ledger clerk, i balanced well.

then remembered him. aproned, legless
ruling lines.

the book binder.

sbm.

The agile man stooped low in its bow,
But made no apology for his lack of yellow suspenders.
Our motley crew congregated somewhere in his left armpit,
Crickets announcing the day’s blaze.

Diners decorated with bibs,
We now awaited word as to the specials.
An aproned crustacean chaperoned us
To our linen-smothered tables.
Pincers stretched forward to place the menus,
Count Devon tramped Mr. Crabby into a mushy patty,
Much to the jest of roaring King Henry.

Glancing over the rest,
Mr. Crabby’s twitching eyes found mine,
Conveying only this: Get out,
While you still can. Man fears my pincers,
Yet they are harmless compared to him, the venomous mincer.

With the blinds
half open, the office
is cool, in the after
noon.  
There is
little money now,
less than even last
year.  
At least the
fair is opening.
A day, a night
with twirled
candy.
I’ll drive,
no I will.
The conversation
has not changed
since last year.
I wonder why
the flag’s
half high
where
the school’ll
be empty
for a month
or more.  
I hope the
aproned gal
will serve
the lunch just
the same as
last year.