Ambiguity
That unsettled feeling
when the first notes stay unrelated
and the performer dressed for a concert
acknowledges the violin is not his.
Shooting stars are his,
washed up on unconnected shores
mid-day, mid-night, mid-calculated risk.
The several notes come again
with greater urgency and he waits
for your reaction. Your frantic search
for some relevance or a borrowed phrase.
He sighs This time more elegantly
stopping just short of completion.
Music is temporarily forgotten.
Here stands a state of mind using notes
as one might steer by starlight
if each is known for its singularity.
Or if these notes are so new,
their brilliance
so unexpected that light years
can no longer be counted,
then an orchestra may be needed.
An orchestra and a conductor
to elaborate endlessly until
meager notes become a symphony.
He tucks the instrument under his arm
and hums his few notes
not unkindly but with a small smile.
Ah, perhaps another John Cage! Or maybe
a Duchamp with a touch of Edith Sitwell!
Dare we suggest
a few more notes would be helpful?
He opens the window and mops his brow;
his handkerchief like a dove
beyond the casement. Perhaps the lecherous
symbol of the Creatrix mistook the violin
for the old oak tree and wanted nothing
to do with a miserable few notes.
Reluctantly, he put the violin in its case.
"Nice tallking to you." he says
as he leaves the room.
L. Fullington
If you've any comments on her poem,
L. Fullington
would be pleased to hear from you.
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