Poem from a Friend

January 24, 2007 at 11:56 AM

The Violinist Beginning to Fly

(after Chagall)

by Mirianne Boruch

They plan to get him down,
a loop of thread
pulled from his trousers and the only way says
the doctor of willfulness and logic, a coppery
icon rooted and lit above the leather bag
growing smaller as we walk away.

From this distance, the violinist is drifting
straight into the sun: just a man fiddling
his brains out, say--joy bundle of nerves, say--
man disbelieving the dark secret, say--rooflight in a bottle and he's drinking it.
Think about his heartbeat then, slow as anyone's
who, searching and searching, finds the perfect
place to live. These bits of Handel bracing the
air, or letting it go, not going to the dogs but
just stepping outside: here

a dazed summer night, the screen door
banging behind, lily of the valley in the
walkway, inevitable smell of rain. Ah--so many
things, finally

not to care about.

***

A sweet and wonderful friend I met on another list said this poem reminded her of me. She's a writer. I'm a writer too, but only of prose and (mostly) non-fiction. I'm not sure I understand the poem. I'd like to, though.

From jennifer steinfeldt warren
Posted on January 25, 2007 at 12:27 AM

It has been some time since I have read a poem that really gripped something alive, for me at least. Thank you for sharing it with us. I will continue to share it, if that is o.k., through friends who appreciate poetry of this type.

Sals,
JW

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