tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6980672.post5755199121047516288..comments2023-10-08T08:38:09.714-04:00Comments on Musical Perceptions: Would you like to play a game?Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01286095156825716887noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6980672.post-83215272682062873512009-10-21T12:39:20.096-04:002009-10-21T12:39:20.096-04:00VIOLIN SOLO
After Erick Grossman’s Violin concerto...VIOLIN SOLO<br />After Erick Grossman’s Violin concerto<br /> <br />By<br /> <br />Consuelo Hernández (USA / Colombian poet)<br /> <br />A lonely violin, alone in the night<br />glowing in the lamp light<br />two universes counterpoised <br />as if up were down, left were right<br />glowing wood, woven of stellar string<br />sidereal miniature.<br /><br />Two suns revolve, exploding stars<br />to be reborn as footsteps, dewdrops of light.<br /><br />Darkness of the sightless<br />night of the silenced<br />trembling hands <br />of earth, your strings<br />a sullen march of retreat<br />from the bow, gentle notes<br />slowpaced sadness <br />martial frenzy, fierce chords<br />amorous pursuits in allegretto<br />folly of the followers, an andante.<br /><br />Youth, aged, love, oblivion<br />children of the same silenced violin<br />universe emptied in childbirth<br />the instrument does not create its own notes<br />the bow remains motionless without sound<br />moved by hands feeling only the bow which touches it.<br /> <br />And I saw in the moment of its anger<br />a different birth from that of peace<br />the ancient sadness which follows me<br />the folly of the sexes on the sand<br />the echo that we have always dreamed <br />but hasn't yet sounded.<br /><br />Nobody has planted shelters in my body<br />nor marvelous fleeting phantoms in my breast<br />nor calcareous soil chocking in my throat <br />the opacity of my universe-light<br /><br />The violins sound on earth<br />I hear a song and see them throwing dice<br />in the middle of the sea<br />life and flotsam floating<br />on mats of palm<br />closed off circumstances<br />with crazed faces of men and women <br />on this screen.<br /><br />From afar, someone moves my strings<br />and in that way, directs my days. <br />I am leaving myself, it is part of the melody. <br />I am visited by strange energies <br />and the notes continue to feel<br />limy in my rose mouth, far from reason <br />wise journeying a fallen leaf<br />searching for its own horizon.<br /><br />Red fire, brutal blast<br />the bow steps into my secret zone<br />my life becomes a show case, <br />a boutique of a thousand trinkets<br />the eyes only touch stars<br />the head becomes a well of hips. <br /><br />Winter arrives, my strings are tuned<br />my pegs writhe, I tremble<br />I emit some notes <br />unable to create the chord<br />which may come from the rain forest <br />from the mountains peaks<br />from the stone of the turkey vultures <br />from its enormous eggs<br />from its nests, which cross my coastline through the mountains<br />my mother brings the firewood <br />to light the hearth...<br /><br />Suddenly the violin sounds again<br />the smoke curls of boats taking off<br />through the winged sea<br />the flavor of moist shadows<br />silver grey edge <br />frenetic pounding of my doubts<br />my mind shrinks<br />and my heart rebounds<br />my breasts grow strong.<br /><br />I am the hollow of a violin<br />chords which tremble<br />when the bow touches them<br />my chords will snap one day<br />I go forth the great healing void.<br /><br />And if I make no sound?<br />indeed<br />all the notes are <br />daughters of silence.<br />If I remain a violin <br />forever needful of the hand which strokes me<br />my notes will be only seven...<br />Better yet I am going to explode<br />I'll give birth to silence emptiness<br />my own permanent nostalgia saudade.<br /><br />I don't want to be a violin<br />I am going to mingle with stars<br />without an ember remaining of my being<br />I am going to flow into the ocean <br />without being water<br />I will become earth <br />without being still<br />I will break through<br />these walls of wood which close me in <br />these chords which imprison me<br />I abandon this bow which works me over<br />the invisible hands which put me into motion<br />I transform myself into hand<br />into bow <br />into air <br />into silence <br />hotel of sounds.<br /><br />The hour has arrived <br />first the sobbing... a good signal<br />until giving birth to<br />the scream forged in my depths<br />it irrigates my eyes <br />makes my teeth chatter<br />it moves the changing lines of my mouth<br />I vomit up my innards<br />thus totally fulfilling <br />my vocation of not being<br />and I am that nothingness.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com