I see you up there,
With noone else, yet not alone,
I can almost swear
I can see every drop of sweat that sparkles.
Glistens and
tumbles,
moistens the strands feathering your forehead.

What is it like in your head?
Is it an organised chaos, an ordered carnage of ideas?
A melee of thought with only one winning the fight,
Only one presented to the world.
Or is it clinical, pristine, with all the tools laid out
in precise order, ready for the dissection of
Bach, Beethovan, Brahms, Blade slicing evenly through the black bars?
Inspiration, perspiration, memorisation, deliberation,
I guess what I'm asking is,
Where does the music come from?

I like to think hosts of angels
make music through hands that will let them,
reaching out through minute vibrations,
which can harmonise with the stirrings of our listening hearts.
He works in mysterious ways,
and we can but give as we receive,
in a beautiful reconciliation
through reciprocation.

Because after all, it's just wood and strings,
What use is it in the bigger frame of things?
These notes and phrases and tinkling tunes,
What use is it when a violin sings?

Because after all, it's just paint on display,
What good is it in the everyday?
The streaks and peaks and swirl of colours,
What good is done when a painting is made?

But the beauty of art is a thing of its own,
Joy, immeasurable, to those who alone
Know its secrets;
And these things that we feel,
These moments we steal,
in quiet appreciation,
are golden treasures in the clockwork motion
of the everyday world.

The bars that keep a violinist caged
can solely exist on the plain of a page.
No metal nor stone can trap the soul,
When only music will fill its hole.

The steady drumming of the timpani
Guides him towards bar eight.
The conductor's stick waves into view,
He tries to concentrate.

The flutes trill out the leading note,
He enters on his own.
He wanted to show the audience
That in those years he'd grown.
But soon all thoughts flew from his head,
He was truly alone,
With only a violin, a bow and that
mature and soaring tone.

I can play a carnival,
I can play a stream.
I can play a gypsy dance,
I can play a dream.

I can play a graceful swan,
I can play a spring.
I can play a bumblebee,
All buzz and frantic wings.

I can play a ballade,
Or a song without words,
I can play a serenade,
The lullabies of birds.

I can play with passion,
Play my whole heart out,
The hunt, the rain, the snow, the doll,
The leaves, the moon, the trout.

I can play a masterpiece,
With slurs and trills and slides,
-But it’s not just about playing,
It’s about playing what’s inside.

Footnote: Recognise all the pieces mentioned? =)

Sometimes I wonder,
is this what I want?
Sometimes I ponder,
maybe I can't.

Each time I say,
it is within your grasp.
Each time I pray,
that it reaches me fast.

I know inside,
patience is a virtue.
And I know besides,
it takes time too.

Yet often I doubt,
my own ability.
Often I cry out,
at my incapability.

And many a time I would lift it,
hear the strings twang at my touch.
Many a time I would play it,
And I would realise so much.

I tremble and shake,
Getting ready for the big performance
Waiting in the dressing rooms,
I desperately try to keep my stance.

I powder each finger delicately,
And run scales quickly then slow,
Clear arpeggios, agile fingers,
I practise controlling the bow.

Rosin the bow hair,
Polish the wood,
Smooth out the suit,
Make sure all is good.

Take a deep breath,
Count down from ten,
And then I walk out,
As calmly as I can.

I see the audience looking at me,
And I lift the violin to my chin,
Taking a deep breath,
I begin to play.
and then
Tchaikovsky whisks me away

I hear the echoes of my violin
resonating through the still air,
I smell the scent of wood and rosin
that linger in the white bowhair.
-my violin

I imagine myself
in Carnegie Hall
waiting for that moment
Where i would stand tall
-and play

Just me and my violin.
And the violinist in me.