THE VIOLIN TEACHER
The streetcar
I remember was a red and white
big, headlighted clickety-clack
that took me in the afternoons
for thirty five cents
that was wrapped in an empty rosin cloth
to the violin lessons
my mother said
she could ill afford.
The eight dollar fee
was folded in my violin case:
and my head was full of Bach:
relax the left hand,
remember to breathe, feel the notes
rise up
like smoke:
and never tighten
the right thumb.
The studio was a third floor room
with high and peeling ceiling
and the place where my teacher
would work his magic.
He always had
his bow at the ready
for a ghost violin
or my violin
that welcomed his strength.
His sounds soared, his eyes
the shade of fresh washed
Coca Cola bottles
green
and glassy.
He had presence. Played a scarred
but dark Strad
his hand would tremble in slow motion
rocking pulling notes
from the depth of the soul.
Vibrato's
what he called it.
A smell of pine trees
followed him complimenting
his brief bright
and glowing smiles,
another smell
like fireplace smoke
and dinners
on single plates
with one light lit
to save on
electricity.
I always
felt he needed the eight dollars
more than we did
and that
melancholy
seeped into the music.
I now plant my feet
and play breathing
the same air as he.
Playing music as grand
as the trees.
I was lucky to have a teacher
that didn't make me choke
and loved
my partitas as much
as my whoopee
cushion jokes.
The streetcar
I remember was a red and white
big, headlighted clickety-clack
that took me in the afternoons
for thirty five cents
that was wrapped in an empty rosin cloth
to the violin lessons
my mother said
she could ill afford.
The eight dollar fee
was folded in my violin case:
and my head was full of Bach:
relax the left hand,
remember to breathe, feel the notes
rise up
like smoke:
and never tighten
the right thumb.
The studio was a third floor room
with high and peeling ceiling
and the place where my teacher
would work his magic.
He always had
his bow at the ready
for a ghost violin
or my violin
that welcomed his strength.
His sounds soared, his eyes
the shade of fresh washed
Coca Cola bottles
green
and glassy.
He had presence. Played a scarred
but dark Strad
his hand would tremble in slow motion
rocking pulling notes
from the depth of the soul.
Vibrato's
what he called it.
A smell of pine trees
followed him complimenting
his brief bright
and glowing smiles,
another smell
like fireplace smoke
and dinners
on single plates
with one light lit
to save on
electricity.
I always
felt he needed the eight dollars
more than we did
and that
melancholy
seeped into the music.
I now plant my feet
and play breathing
the same air as he.
Playing music as grand
as the trees.
I was lucky to have a teacher
that didn't make me choke
and loved
my partitas as much
as my whoopee
cushion jokes.