Tonight's Poet Corner: Sonnet Solstice #45
The Violin That Sang
by Belinda Roddie
The violin that sang all on its own
needed no one to charge its battery
of repertoire, no fingers to caress
the strings that lay awaiting for their touch.
It was a lonely violin, but a
marvelous instrument, a vibrant one,
a daring one in a world where the art
lay not with the device, but with the man
or woman who could allow symphonies
to stir brains. When brought to the stage, it would
sit upright, the bow hovering in front
of its wooden face. It could hum Mozart
or Beethoven in deep, tranquil delight,
so lonely violin caught ears each night.
by Belinda Roddie
The violin that sang all on its own
needed no one to charge its battery
of repertoire, no fingers to caress
the strings that lay awaiting for their touch.
It was a lonely violin, but a
marvelous instrument, a vibrant one,
a daring one in a world where the art
lay not with the device, but with the man
or woman who could allow symphonies
to stir brains. When brought to the stage, it would
sit upright, the bow hovering in front
of its wooden face. It could hum Mozart
or Beethoven in deep, tranquil delight,
so lonely violin caught ears each night.
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