Friday 11 February 2011

Poem by the Dutch writer Anna Enquist

First violin

He has at most two yards
of strings, and pure white
flaxen hair. Thinks: I am
the resounding heart. Prefers
to play close to the bath,
shrouded by richoceted
sound, giddied
by stone and glass.

Reeling and dazed by boundless
height, bowing he makes
his own that which he dares not
think about: the steady
beat of time which steals all you hold
dear and later will destroy.

There is a dripping tap
but he’s consigned to paradise
as long as sound commands belief.

This poem can be seen together with one about the cello
posted a year ago here

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