by these gigantic hands
to the framework that holds me from below!
The slightest tap upon this rack
can make me quiver into sound.
And when
against the cross-pull of the strands
that come and go
I shudder and vibrate,
the whole body of my world resounds.
Should I lie slack
along all my length
in complete contact with this ground,
nor it nor I would resonate:
There would be no music then.
It is this thing
perversely called a bridge,
that separates
and holds me back
from everything--this hard threshold,
this stumbling block--produces strength,
gives power to strain,
and makes me sing.
Sometimes so vibrant is the pain
that thrills me through, I know
they are stroking me again
(fingers pressing, probing how
to raise my cry up to a scream)
with that delicate, pitiless bow.
How they must be enjoying it now.
(A FIDDLE)
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A Fiddle in my opinion was written by a Great Poet. I loved it.
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