To the strains of a string quartet,
The classics claim the night,
With four strings and not one fret,
The chords are sheer delight.
Feel the warmth of Vivaldi’s Spring,
The late harvest, reaping scores,
The crescendo, hanging on a string,
The fertile note, the pregnant pause,
Brahm’s in accompaniment, mellow,
As the sound of water over stones,
To finish (with yiddish temperament) the cello,
Draws a long bow; in sombre tones.
. The living sounds are beautifully matched,
. They often come with strings attached.
© Tim Grace, 18 February 2011
To the reader: The soft sounds of a string quartet float with reassurance; buoyant. The four piece band with full emphasis on melodic harmonies; tuneful. The result, a beautifully balanced accompaniment to a night on the rolling waves; far from all at sea. Nervous introductions, delivered in broken English, were translated into masterful renditions of music’s classical best.
To the poet: Nothing like being there. Nonetheless, a good poem extends the moment; outlasts the experience and aids retrieval. Ditties, like snapshots or snippets, are framed with little purpose beyond a statement of ‘I was here…”. Through deeper recollection, the experience can’t be surpassed, magnified or replicated; it can be synthesised. The poem, for just a moment, can make sense of all things at once.