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Thursday, Nov. 19, 2009 11:45 pm

musicpoem #11

my father sat on my sister’s first fiddle
left on the couch she was seven he was
so mad he grabbed it by the neck smashed
it to the floor where it finished dying
with a doleful twang the good thing was
they got her another better one we had
no more violin violence till much later   
when sister #2 in a fit of pique broke her
bow over that first sister’s head so much
for music soothing the savage breast that
first sister also left her valuable fiddle out
in the rain she used to practice under the
sky a strolling minstrel both sisters
are still fiddlers still play solos trios
chamber music orchestras and I who
never met musical violence except
within my own breast — tears dribbled
to my chinrest when I was practicing
the third violin part to nobody knows
the trouble I’ve seen — that’s when they
figured a cellist was more needed than
another fiddler and I was switched — now
I’m the one who seldom rosins a bow turns
a peg guess I traded that passion for a pen

Jacqueline Jackson (c) 2009
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