Wednesday, January 6, 2016

The Violinist

Writing poetry, you start with and idea. There you are with your mum... and where does it take you?

violin from 1658 by Jakob Stainer

The Violinist 

There you are
With your mum inside her tum
She stops
In a second hand shop in Notting Hill
What will she buy while you wait?
Something vintage, something quaint,
Perhaps a brush, some tubes with which to paint
Something to inspire
A work of art as beautiful as Renoir
If she dares something rare and not a coffee cup
Something quirky as a turkey
Stuffed and mounted
Made up by a taxidermy
All the while you squirm all wormy
With thoughts
Of who knows what
Hoping that her choice is socially acceptable
Something conventional
Perhaps a book to while away the hours
Waiting patiently for you

You listen

Imprisoned as you are
For some apparition of the future
And her dreams of what is to come for you
Finally, her indecision is over
And you hear
In your still unformed ear
The gentle sound of the strings of a violin
And within the mother’s tum
Stirs the ambition to be a musician

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