"violinist" poems
We had come to see him, the aging Tenor sing.
He was as good as he had always been.
But half way through, a woman appeared,
Moving gracefully in bare feet upon the stage.
Entering the ring of bright spot light near him.
Long blond hair, falling loose around her neck,
Held back both sides by Turtle Shell combs,
Reflecting the light.
Adorned in but a simple, low cut black dress,
Her with a face beautiful as a new spring day.
Held in her left hand an ebony hued violin,
Touched fondly, like a well accustomed old friend.
Her right hand holding a bow, ready and waiting.
The Tenor’s and her eyes met and conveyed a message
Only they understood. Then starting slow and low,
The full Orchestra commenced. The woman in black
Brought instrument up to her chin, lovingly resting
her face upon it, as if comforted by it's touch to skin.
The fetching violinist, like a graceful reed,
In summer breeze, began to gently sway,
Laid Bow to strings and a transcended beauty,
The voice of both her Instrument and from within she,
Emerged through her fingers, completely filling the hall.
With eyes closed, the slight movements of expression
On her face registering the feelings the musical notes made,
As if those gestures too, guided the bow's musical cords.
Slender precise fingers lovingly caressing the strings.
For nearly a minute, she and her violin played alone.
Her actions of body, hands and head in concert,
To her music, unavoidably hypnotic it could be said.
The Tenor started to sing, and yet my eyes stayed
Locked on her, as if no one else in the room was there.
The blond woman in the black dress owned the stage.
I have no idea how long that piece of music lasted,
I could not attest to what contribution the Tenor made.
Fully my attention and eventually my heart belonged
To that lovely, evocative young woman in the backless,
Little black dress.
It’s true that I may never see or hear her play again,
I know not, even her name.
And yet, I’m sure that I will never forget those
Few minutes mesmerized by her magical spell.
Hopelessly caught in her enchanting web.
With me sitting, third row, isle seat left,
Worshiping as I did, at her so pretty,
Slightly ***** naked feet, the striking
Blond woman in the black dress.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
That night, I heard
the violin.
Between staves of
leaves,
string-encrusted frills,
I heard a violin,
not cry, not sing, but
dream.
I heard a violin dream.
Before long, after
soon,
I heard the violin.
Between shifting, fleeting,
mindful things,
I heard a violin,
fitted unmathematically
within a memory.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
A llama mama who is ever so special
A swimmer glides through the water with so much grace
Artistically inclines, genius by birth; slacker by choice
Music.Lit.Bio.Lovely girl whom I very much admire
Strong girl who makes use of every opportunity
Another swimmer with heart and face so lovely
An elephant - the light o' every lil' chat
Candy- words so wise; heart so warm
Another brave girl; lots in common; in every way beautiful
Eloquent speaker And A Violinist
Another swimmer with such a laugh!
Our dear walking dictionary; never fails to put a smile on my face
Runner and fighter ALL THE WAY
Vettypoop aka my spirit animal
Smiling dolphin
Laughing cheerful pop ****
Artyfarty girl with so much poise and grace
Artyfarty and a swimmer? Ooh la la
Cute and sweet and everything else with a tinge of the kpop
Disciplinarian and nice
1Der with a twinned soul
A cutie pie with a such a heart
Strange girl this one is but I love the way she talks and writes.
Strange laughter and even stranger words you say
Motherly touches
My lovely leader, with such a beautiful core
Craycray, stay craycray bubu
Smiler and such a high toned shriek
You my bestie; my listening ear
Ordinary Me
Meangirl99 at first sight, lovelygirl99 at the second
KimChi such a hard-worker
Another hard worker with a positive glow
A dancer on a note of sarcasm
Heart of gold; Mind of snow
Naughty naughty
so this is my class of 36
every girl
a wonderful light
and this 36 beautiful souls
make up the beautiful beautiful class
of
203
With varying teachers and varying situations,
we have stood by each other
With much faith I have in all of you
Let's soar to the skies
Pull each other
to soar
and
soar
and soar
to heights never known
never reached.
I know we are going to make
2013
our year
203's year to
amaze people like never before.
Prove every teacher we are the awesomest class on earth.
Trust me.
We will.
Every strength and weakness binded together;
203 is going to
ROCK THE HOUSE TONIGHT! :)
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 10:01 AM UTC
"Stop It!" shouted the man
who was dressed in a ***** pin stripe suit,
eye glasses half askew on his nose,
ski-slope haircut sported since his youth.
My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the hundredth time I felt it's sting.
I stood there, patiently and quiet
caressing my double bass violin
my secret seventh grade lover;
she had **** curves and a deep, soothing voice.
I stood there, impatiently and quiet
waiting for Mr. Heidrich to finish the lesson
focused on the third seat violinist
whom played without feeling, again.
I stood there, overbearingly anxious
tapping on the shoulder of my wooden BFF
my rendition of the William Tell Overture
A performance worthy of a Grammy!
The man in the ***** pin stripe suit,
turned and looked at me, scornfully
his half-bald head turned beet red
body shook violently like an earthquake!
The energy released from his gullet
would have made Mount Vesuvius jealous
fiery vocals of curse and rage
would have made the evilest of demons run for cover!
My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the 101st time I felt it's sting.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
There he sits.
The moon is in the sky,
like clockwork.
His personality changed
from yesterday,
along with his clothes.
Tonight, he's draped in stars
and showing only a quarter
of his wonderful personality.
How humble he can be.
He's playing off the light
of the fireflies
like a violinist from a conductor.
Look at that...he's higher
than the shadow connected trees.
My old friend,
you have a flare for the dramatic.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
*oh violinist
you play your violin so gently,
you paint the room with your lovely melodies
and it's always a beautiful piece of art
but yet you play with my heart
like a little boy
who enjoys playing with his toys
oh violinist
is my heart not as gentle
as your violin?
oh violinist
i knew it was a mistake to let you in.*
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 6:46 PM UTC
Soft sweet meadow
radiating its breath of life;
sounding its serenity
in echoes of the mind's eye
Living in this flat land
lay plush
in wild, multicolored-flowery-pockets in greenery
blankets "Sweet Meadow" with fresh quickened
fragrance
And by our bedroom window
with a summer night's soft evening breeze
mellow cheeeping can be heard from way way down below
seemingly luring us to...
.. "OPEN WIDER THE WINDOW...
...AND LISTEN!!
Chant dear chorus
as violinist in "Cricket Suits"
join this cantor
that swings with rhythm
with wheezing sounding bugs, AH HUMMING!!
and an intermission of
Cha Cheep, Cha Cheep
that breaks the nocturnal entomological singing
with ephemeral intermissions
Be bewitched by brillance as
tunes fly and z i n g
their little
whistle
songs so sweet a talent
unseen
little bugs sweetly sing
their little
tale of talent
in "Soft Sweet Meadow"
Comforted by vibrating frequencies
the air is electrical clasping
our good-inner child
as this meadow
unfolds its truth
being beneficial
to us all
We journey not too far
for this field draws us
to its delightful *****
We irresistibly suckle on its daytime scenic eye-filling foliage
later eliciting dreams made of peaceful slumber
Cha Cheep, Cha Cheep and good night...
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Burgundy, the color of a dress I’ve never worn
to an occasion that never occurred
Velvet lined
coffin
Where lies the violin
There lies its song
The heart of fiddle strings
that bare of arms
That heart that sings, speaks, no, yells
to the hands that can’t respond!
to a mind that can’t remember
I was drowning in some future
not a violinist’s
“Alive with Pleasure”
read the billboard slogan for cigarettes
behind the happy couple
running out into their future
Forcing the hand of marriage
Waving goodbye to my life
from a rooftop in Scranton
as the wind hauled my laundry three city blocks
dumping my unders on Saint Luke’s sills
sailing my sheets up Wyoming Avenue
I lay on the tar and pebble roof
watching pigeons swirl
listening to traffic pass on the street below
The moment you know you’ve made the mistake
you can’t return from....
Wherever my towels have blown?
I wish them well....
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
What happened?
Oh wait I remember
A president was elected
But we didn't get him
Instead we a got a dictatorial regime.
Freedom of speech was the first right to go
Slowly but surely
Prisoners of war
Accumulated in the prisons.
College kids and Activists
Beaten, ***** shot, ridiculed.
They might as well have been tarred and feathered
How sick do you have to be to shoot at a girl
Sitting
With her eyes closed
Crying for her country?
How sick do you have to be to paralyze a 15 year old boy
Walking
With the rest of us
For his future?
And don't get me started on the grandpa
Who was marching
with his grandchildren
Or the violinist
Dedicating a tune to his country
All trying
To escape from this country
Plagued by insecurity, inflation, and corruption.
The only thing we have left
Is a small scrap of hope.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC
there was a little monkey he played the violin
he just love to hold it with his little chin
he would use the bow pulling to and fro
from his violin his music it would flow
he had a dream that oneday famous he would be
a violinist of the best go down in history
he praticed everyday two hours maybe more
until everthing was perfect for his music score
there was a competition to play the albert all
monkey stood in line waiting for his call
then came his time to play he would do is best
to be the best of all and beat all the rest
he began to play the crowd he did amaze
playing with such skill they were in a daze
they shouted out for more and stood up on there feet
monkey he was proud it made him feel complete
monkey he had won now a music star
people came to see from near and a far
now he travels global for all the world to see
all around the world famous now is he
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
Mt great grandfather was
A Swedish violinist,
Back in Goteborg,
Like in Phantom of the Opera.
I like to think of him
Walking through cobblestone
Alleyways past pastel houses
And little markets selling lingonberries,
Playing his violin.
I heard he loved someone, once.
A woman before my great-grandmother.
I wonder if he played songs for her,
I wonder if she cried when he did.
But they're all dead, now.
His violin hangs on the wall
At my grandmother's house in Jersey,
Dry from all tears,
With splintered strings like torn
Vocal cords, no longer able to
Sing.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
Do, re, tiring me.
Fa, So, Latte sounds good.
A sale on tea?
Do ti la "So, how are your scales going?"
My teacher calls; he wants to know.
"FAr from REady." I admit.
I tried to practice steady,
but store had a sale today, so I quit.
"You'll never make the grade like that;
Devote every hour" He says with a glower.
"Go practice your bow. Coffee can wait."
He's right of course, but I still take the bait.
How's a someone like me
expected to practice enthusiastically?
What's a musician without caffeine to keep his lights turned to "go"?
When the coffee shop conspires to take all my hard earned DOugh?
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
A brook runs through my Grandmas farm,
That used to carry gold.
My Grandpa
-Benjamin-
Did not yield the land,
To the British, who wanted it dammed.
In 1968, they took him in,
To have his appendix removed,
And Grandma never remarried.
My Aunt Alice,
Was a witch.
She flew in on broomsticks
We never saw,
But heard in the barn,
Where she parked.
She brought foreign sweets that didn’t
Crack our lips,
And told us naughty jokes.
-Oh Pope the *******
Please pass the Custard!-
We’d squeal and never tell,
And feel all grown up and,
Conspiratorial.
Grandma says she died running with
The wrong pack,
That she was knocked from the sky,
By a cross.
Later we learned,
It was a broken heart that did it, that
Grandma wouldn’t accept a,
Jewish man in the house,
So she killed herself.
Mary was dead when we got here,
Her tree is the prettiest.
It’s a large yellow poplar that
Trembles in the slightest breeze.
She was a violinist,
A frail, little thing, who
Is fading away in family photographs.
Irridescent sparrows trill,
Beautiful harmonies,
From skinny branches,
Shielded by the most delicate,
Drooping fronds.
You see, my Grandmother has three beautiful trees,
Growing in her garden,
One for Benjamin, one for Alice, one for Mary.
My grandmother used to sit under these trees.
They’re feeding off the bones she says.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
Central Park transformed,
a natural stadium
of tourists, strollers,
drunk on:
spring beer Buds,
or
buds of forsythia
maps upside down,
smiles right-side up
Amazing,
they don't even notice,
'walk on by,'
*the white shirted, black suited
unicorn playing the accordion*
or the
*violinist
imitating Charlie Chaplin,
playing both her instrument and
her hula hoop,
simultaneously*
ah Central Park,
your air is like
a first cup of spring,
a first morning coffee,
a fresh breath of
a special new,
if you know
how to
just be,
in NYC
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
Subtle melody, find solace
as fingers ride the wind like wings.
Side walk top hats are my wallet,
as heartache grips the listening crowd
and just like that, the wind too sings
along with my torn fingered strings,
that fly like heartache sung aloud,
and come alive like Spring.
My fingers know which notes to tear away.
The violin knows what wind it needs for tune.
I'll rest the base against my neck and play,
Street corners my rehearsal room,
in coldest winter or sunniest spring;
In frigid night, in scorching day,
I'll play. My blistered fingers know the way.
Seasons come and go astray.
Plucking fingers freeze and burn.
But everywhere by bow resolves to turn,
the wind follows, waiting for my word;
His cue to take the stage and sing
songs that come alive like Spring
and my smiling fingers know which string
will permit the wind be heard.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
It's easy to write about warm people. It's simple to just let their love and compassion flow effortlessly out into the world. They stumble upon the perfect one, THE one, and fall in love even if they don't know it. And for a while they don't, because that's the beauty of it. They don't know, and then suddenly they do and they realize that they're complete and whole now, that they've found someone who fills the cracks in their soul.
It would not be so easy to write about someone who flat out refuses to admit that they are not already complete. Then he appeared. I couldn't see him, but I knew he was there. Oh, this is a game then, I thought. I'll see what I can figure out about you.
I'm Isaac.
I heard it so loud and clear. Shivering, I whispered, nice to meet you, Isaac. I let images flash through my mind as though I was trying to settle on the one that fit the personality walking at my heels. He's blonde. Which is odd. My characters aren't usually blonde. But he's blonde in a way that he can hide. At first I thought he'd walk slowly, shuffling his feet as though he was so focused on what was inside his mind that outside of it his coordination was all off. But then I realized he was keeping up with me, and I am quite a brisk walker. Isaac is one of those people who builds walls. He doesn't know it, but he does it. Everyone else notices. They notice, but they don't care. The only time people run into his walls are when they try to complement him on his playing.
Oh, did I mention he's a musician? That's why he's built the walls. As of now, I'm pretty sure he's a violinist.
But anyway, when people compliment him, try to tell him how the ways he plays that violin opened a well of feelings within them that they didn't know existed, he stares blankly. They blink, thank him again, and hurry off, wondering if the reason his blue eyes were so confused was that they'd lost their ocean of feeling to the music.
I wanted him to be chubby, perched somewhere on the border of adorable baby fat and visibly out of shape. But his shadow behind me is tall and bony. Not athletic, not chiseled or lean, just wiry. All sinew and nerves. Like when he plays, he might rip.
Then I'm home. Mom calls down stairs and asks how my day was. It was fine. Boring.
I know I left Isaac outside, but he doesn't want to come in. So it's okay.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
It’s work, this wailing,
a daily occupation.
Alongside the light-rail
A ghost bike, a placard,
a quickening in the blood.
Murmur, breathe myself to sleep,
fleece this feeling,
Blue skies somewhere
and yeah, life goes on.
I struggle to wake,
my sharpest knife
slides along this peach’s stone,
scoop this flesh, devour.
Crepuscular light,
Fecundity of life,
Lacerate this daytime
cut through with dim.
Celerity of dusk,
and with it this gloaming,
My quidnunc neighbor
seals ear to wall to trace
my hitching breaths from air.
But it’s tomorrow now
and it is warm in Paranoia Park.
This violinist, though hardly Paganini,
embroiders sound onto sound.
His bow draws a frisson
along my spine, my nerves
His strings, vibration,
shimmering, a shock, a flush.
This moment: a reprieve,
my coffee break from grief.
All the trees are turning orange.
The days all turn to sleep.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 3:52 PM UTC
As the hail makes love to the streets
I query its vendetta with I
What had I done to be defamed
By such unforeseen chagrin
The sound ‘tis the ****** of the horizon
Echoes that of a violinist scarred by ****** mortification
The harmony plays in quite a lovely manner
Could hook one quickly if not careful
Appeased I sit in a wooden, black chair
And saturate in fine rock refrains
A pacifying compensation if I may say
A scripted version of hell
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 8:48 PM UTC
Reading,
Reading you,
Reading me:
Symphonic emotional intelligence,
Words like a violinist.
I carry them with me
Inside my mind applying reality,
The unreality passsing out of me.
The poems speak like see through natures,
The clarity of my discombobulation.
You all become real.
Archives of the souls
Instantaneous connection
Closer than
Touch:
Your words resonance with every
Fiber of my being.
Your words
Invent more words,
Your emotions tie
The world's shoestrings,
The experience shared
Is a reality of musical theatre
And it kills the silence,
The silence of the mind.
Your words are movement,
Be it from a past,
The metaphysical dance,
A kiss of gentle air,
The idea is a life living
Recovering from the enigmatic plague
Of ignorance.
Though I see the bird sing
My heart stops when it I hear it
Through your words;
Connectivity.
Reading is not reading,
It is saying what your silence says,
Art becoming life in an echo of YOU.
The words that I understand:
Yes, the pain is also a gesture of reality,
It lets us know it was real,
Your tears,
Your secrets,
The murmured past,
And as I read it becomes as the
Sun on morning dew.
Beginnings,
Endings,
You become apart of me,
I become part of you,
Not words
But music in the silence.
And the moment will come
When you hear it too:
The poetry:
Crystalline humanity.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
He sat behind me
At dinner
Unobtrusively
So quietly I didn't
Couldn't
Notice
He was there
Until
The music started
A melody
I hadn't heard
In months,
Days,
Years
My favorite
So I turned away from
The conversation
And listened
Intently
To the Broadway magic
That brought me
Back
To times gone by
I missed
This
The music of my childhood
It is a type of magic
Like any song
I suppose, but
Special
At least to me
That violinist
Behind me at dinner
Continued to play my
Memories
For me
And returned me to
Happiness
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
Violin, oh violin
How I let your sweet sound sink in.
String by string,
Mel oh dee.
My fingers dance along thin white lines,
Striped beneath the strings form beginners past.
I play elaborate, and sweet, and soft
But I drag it out at the end.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
300 violins play in the background
As words flow out of me like a punctured ink pin
Drowning the paper like a flash flood
They play a symphony to the written sins
300 orchestrated violins plays their strings
The music
Out weighs the strange annotations on the pages
My words they use as their music sheet
Sounds emanate as they guide there bow over the strings
Following along the music sheets
Penned by me
300 violins play a soft soothing tune in the beginning
But they all start to scratch as they follow the path of the words
Playing erratic and panic
What verbs must I have use
They all seemed to play confused
300 violinist playing off key
Composed by me
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ********** blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
It's not in the lovely way you speak
Or how you and I just seem to click.
It's not in the way you sing
And how you strum my heart's string.
It's how you make me feel
And fact that you're cuter than a baby seal.
Sometimes, your words kinda melt my heart
And I can't tell the sun and your smile apart.
It's because I want to hold your hand
And your lips are where I want mine to land.
It's 'cause of how you bring me up
When I struggle to overcome a hiccup.
That's why I like you more than a friend...
Because your existence made my fear of girls to end.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
Never tell me to never change
Cause next thing you know
Ten or twenty years from now
You’ll look me up and I’ll be
337 pounds with a career in
Painting houses purple.
I’ll carry an umbrella with me everywhere I go.
There will be a warrant for my arrest out in a country I don’t visit anymore.
I won’t have any lovers—not a one.
I’ll have given them up for my causes:
The cause of the Open Windows and Rooted Bird Feet and Medicinal Marijuana.
And then I’ll fall in love again.
This time for keeps.
And our kids will be just crazy because we’ll live in a place without video games.
I’ll be a violent pacifist, or a passive violinist,
And all the world will have never heard of me.
Then he’ll die, or I’ll die, or we’ll get to live until we’re old and we can go to **** beaches butt-naked and revel in the joy of squeamish young people.
And if I’m not the one to die, then I’ll get angry all over again about the state the world is in.
These sort of things don’t fade with age.
Maybe I’ll try to fix things, or maybe I’ll just accept the things I can’t change.
Maybe I'll be changed by the fixed things I have so much trouble accepting.
Maybe I’ll have enough friends (you included?) to take care of me if I hit rock bottom.
Maybe I’ll be strong enough to take care of friends (maybe you?) that have reached the end of their rope.
So be appalled with what may be, or live in denial for what there was, or choose to embrace a bigger me.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC