Ah, now. Back to the poetry. I like occasionally to do pieces on my musical instruments. Here is one from scratch, so we'll see how this works out. Be warned, beloved readers: I personify my instruments. My clarinet is Claire (and she has been Claire for as long as I've played her, long before I met SuperClaire), and my violin is El Violeta (Spanish for The Violet, as opposed to El Morado [the purple], in a male-gender sense. My violin is distinctly a 'he'). My keyboard is Caius (as in Caius Cassius from Julius Caesar, my favourite character in the tale...plus, the keyboard is a Casio). No, I'm not a lunatic...I think.
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Violin
I am in my easy chair, my happy place,
with a cat on my lap and a book in my hands.
The cat purrs softly, a musical rippling sound
that buzzes warmly against my chest.
I try to resist the insistant tingling in my fingertips,
but it cannot be denied.
I sigh deeply, resigned, but just under my skin,
every nerve ending is popping and crackling
like lightning and white fire.
The book in my hands closes
with a rustle and a snap.
The cat leaps from my lap,
and I cross the room
in an instant.
My ears ring with anticipation,
and I force myself to go slowly
and patiently when I open the case.
There he is, the other half of my soul.
His four strings cry out to me
as the air whispers across them,
a purple sound like light and wind,
elegant and yearning.
I know in an instant that he has been
faithful and true, keeping always in tune.
I pull up the straps that hold him down,
and that radiant, royal voice,
so heartbreakingly sad and human,
chimes its lament for our lonely hours,
when we were apart.
I balance him lightly against my chest
while I draw and tighten the bow.
The rosin lingers there, still fresh and sweet,
a thick, wild scent that speaks of shadows
under spruce and pine.
Gently, so unbearably slowly,
I raise my violin to my shoulder,
until he rests snugly against my face,
nestled perfectly in the curve of my throat,
as though we had been built together in one piece.
I lift the bow.
I strike the first note.
The world falls away, and the song fills my mind and my soul.
Each chord burns like ice in my veins, pulsing against my face and chest,
great roaring waves of sound.
My soul soars, and my violin sings with agony and rapture,
as though an angel were trapped inside,
bound for all eternity
by four delicate strings and a tiny box of spruce and tiger-maple.
I feel the song in my teeth and my fingertips,
a sweetness almost like pain,
a sorrow almost like love.
Then, it is over, and nothing is left
but an afterglow that resembles moonlight.
I loosen the bow and put it away.
I clean the fingerboard and chin rest
with a soft cloth, leaving no rosin dust,
oil, or fingerprints to mar his beauty and grace.
Tenderly, I place him back into the case.
Just as the securing strap tightens down on his neck,
he crys out to me, again.
It sounds like a farewell.
Or a blessing.
Or a prayer.
I can't help making a soft, silent cry of my own,
as the last latch clicks shut with a small,
but final,
"Snap".
