Classic and Contemporary Poetry
FIDDLER'S FAREWELL, by LEONORA SPEYER Poem Explanation Poet's Biography First Line: Fold now the song within the songster Last Line: Above your tuneless sobbing? Subject(s): Music & Musicians; Violins | ||||||||
Fold now the song within the songster. Small sturdy one, Roistering down the centuries, Drunk with the fiddlers' fingers, (Never a dearth of these, The living crowding where the dead have been), Pure promiscuous dandled violin! Caesar of sound, my songs in passing, cry, Morituri te salutamus! . . . and passing, die. Fold now the song away. Close the lid down Upon the gradual dismay Of disconcerted singing, Unloose the fingers' clinging That has so lost its cunning, Turn from the faltering renown, Fame of the little town After the flag-hung city; Deny the ruin pity! Pity? Yes, for the failing song That like a droughty stream Crawls, drips Over an arid land, (Yet deep enough to drown) -- O violin that slips From the relinquishing hand, Brown brightness hid -- Let fall the incurious lid. * * * * * Let me find words With which to sing of silence, Better than all this blurred half-sound Of tattered music trailing on the ground, (That was a banner in the wind), Words And their pacing pride For the frustrated heart, That stoic singer in the side, Unviolined! Be not afraid, My songs, my full-throats, Be not stampeded into muffled herds, Mouthing and terrified -- O fierce white music that I made, Proud notes, Chords, choirs of taut tuned strings, And slender strength Of bow that was a bough; Tread this last length Of singing, mellow and muted, staid, Pass unbewildered now With this processional of rhymed recording words. Be not afraid. * * * * * What is a violin? Who shall reveal this mystery of thin Vibrating wood? Of forest voices multi-voiced -- Wind, rain, on many leaves, Bent branches moaning under The crash of clouds that meet, The cool pale hiss of snow? And birds? And pattering furry feet? (Young cries along the leaves!) All musics and all seasons Seeping and soaking in, Into the very core Of the green bud Of destined fiddle-wood -- Long long before The master-mind conceives, The hand achieves The carven whole, The curving sides, the twisted scroll, Shapes it and stains it to this red russet thing Of expectant string, Names it, invests it With its adolescent voice, Fondles it, fingers it, Breasts it! How light it seems, Swinging between the abdicating finger and thumb, How frail this unbarred stronghold Of sweet gold -- All fortunes and all raptures and all dreams -- Kind horn of plenty! And who shall count the glittering sum? * * * * * Words for my fiddle now, Abundance of goodly words: My deft, my dear, My witty one With your brave answer ever ready, My box of birds, Crony and hearty, Winged hubbub, Tool, And tear -- Fiddler, fiddle, To leave you lying here! What then? Stand stripped of music? Resolutely attain A dull and obdurate ear For the blithe hurricane? Shiver, and gather closer these aphonous rags Like a begger's coat; Shut the bland thunder out? Acknowledge silence -- But what if there be none? What if all sound go sounding on and on Upon a loftier air, The green note and its fellow Roused to a greener loudness Forever lifting there? Let me declare That music never dies; That music never dies. Let me in potent mood create Of this my fantasy a faith, A little paradise Immaculate, True as the tested string is true, For all the lovely cries Of all the violins -- And of mine too! * * * * * In time A stranger with the supple fiddler's hand, And the rapt eye That sees the sound sublime, Will come, (Must come, I wish it so!) To coax these stagnant strings, Kindle their numb And awful apathy with one imperative blow Of the fleet accurate bow; Release the fiddle-cry. O faithless -- Faithful only to sound, (That loud-lipped passer-by), You will forget straightway The player for the player; And both for the tune you play! In time I too shall turn To others' music, Shall learn A niggardly delight In some slight Lord of nimble fingers Tossing me sops of song; The long And measured wisdom of wide symphonies Will find me listening; A singer, a child's hand on the candid keys, A whistle on the wing; All these! I'll not disdain the fine And effervescent draught, Filling the echoing cup (That was so full!) With others' wine. I'll not refuse to drink. But first I must know thirst. So must this violin of mine, I think. * * * * * How still it lies; An empty shell along the empty sand Is not more still; But put your hand To the shining thing As music passes! Do you feel the quickening Of the languid wood? Come, lay your ear To the shell -- Heart, leaning near, So near -- Do you hear The stirring and the throbbing Above your tuneless sobbing? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NEAR MISS HAIKU by ANSELM HOLLO OUT-OF-THE-BODY TRAVEL by STANLEY PLUMLY HE'D BE NOTHING BUT HIS VIOLIN by MARY KYLE DALLAS THE OLD VIOLIN by MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN THE VIOLINIST by MARGARET STEELE ANDERSON THE VIOLIN'S ENCHANTRESS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET A VIOLINIST by FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON A B C'S IN GREEN by LEONORA SPEYER |
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