drifting in the light
of a tender touch
letting tension go
feeling so alive
taking it so slow
let the loving flow
following the curve
she’s my violin
i sense her body sing
la la la –
her skin
that’s where it begins
rolling through the arc
sliding to the bridge
touching ev’ry nerve
reaching to the edge
coming down again
swooping on her sound
flying
falling in
violin
Dreaming Bob Dylan
I fell asleep and dreamed a dream.
I was with my old lover, we lay in bed.
The things in our room were re-arranged.
I said, ‘The bed side table should be here,
there is nowhere now i can rest my book
and the shelf is gone, and your memory jar.’
To get to this place we had travelled far.
I went outside and i saw where we were.
We were in a hotel by the Taj Mahal,
the shining white palace of love,
and a river flowed right past our door.
‘I have been for a walk’ i said to you
you answered me with a warning smile
‘You cant be too careful with children here,
you must hold their hands wherever you go.”
I said ‘yes, it’s true, but our children are grown,
they have their own lives, and their own homes,
they are taller than me, the nest is flown”
You told me you’d been out the night before
and met a man who got you drunk.
You showed me a head that was covered in gold
it was huge and heavy but the face was kind.
You tipped it up and the liquor flowed
out of its neck and onto the ground.
There were shallow waters all around.
I heard a guitar and I turned about.
I saw Bob Dylan was standing there.
His face in the free-wheelin’ time of life,
a time when he shone like a new born star.
I listened to his songs as the river flowed by.
I sat by the river and talked with him.
He didn’t say much. He looked resigned.
My lover said ‘There’s a wish fulfilled,
You can tick that one off the bucket list.’
I said ‘Wishes are useless in times like this.
I think Bob Dylan’s time has come.
There’s no place left for us to run.’
It makes me feel lost, he’s a friend,
a friend I maybe never had
but i played music so long with him
blending his guitar with my violin
and now it’s the end of Bob Dylan’s dream,
a beautiful dream. It’s makes me sad.’
Making Music
the joy, the thrill, the exaltation
when all our harmonies are right
as we weave around each other
moving in and out, the tune delights
we change the key, we change the mood
the mysteries of the minor drop
all the wistfulness and beauty
that makes us conscious of our loss
you bring the chords to a crescendo
i swoop the violin above
circling in a spiral, upward,
a melody of endless love
now the music plays itself through us
this is not our composition
it is handed down in trust
as we open wide our hearts
faster still, with wild abandon,
played in perfect resolution
at last a passage strong and tender
ending on a single note
Ode to my Violin
I. The Immigrant
Languishing in a prison, long forgotten,
the shape of music itself, a broken violin.
My eager hands, outstretch for embrace.
I had longed for you for years, missed you
without knowing, a yearning deep in the soul.
Darkly glowing wood, old, mellowed, unloved.
Born in a Saxony village, generations of travel
to land on these shores, unwanted again,
thrown out when friendships died.
Bridge collapsed, one hanging string,
bow, shredded wisp of a white horse tail.
You lay hidden, cast out, forgotten,
a tramp in a gypsy encampment.
II. The Vow
I remembered you. My blood thrilled.
Ancient wood restored, all molecules aligned,
by the strong hand of the bow.
Your exhilaration echoed beside my ear,
double stopped strings reverberating,
the leap to the high exalting note,
expressing, completing, every wish in my heart
from sorrow at beauty to a wild need to dance.
I vowed to honour you, gave you devotion.
I knew you could sing, sing for me,
by the constant stroke of the bow
III Discipline
Scales, scales, scales, over, over, over, repeat,
scales, scales, scales, over, over, over, repeat.
Again! Become a master, with a gentle hold,
never grip, however strong the heat.
This flower is tender, this horse is wild.
Circle the bow in the jig, keep it bright.
Hold the bow slow and steady, dreaming child,
as poignancy stretches through twilight to night.
Wake me at dawn. To repeat.
IV – The Sonnet
Humming like a honey-bee,
dark throated wood, a deep forest note,
a salmon leaping a waterfall in silver light.
The clear cry of the lark in summer.
Sun on a high mountain, clouds,
a deep pool in a wide sweep of valley,
sparkles, shadows, the whirling dance,
the wild hunt and the flame.
Ecstatic violin. My lifting heart.
All these paths we took together
as I paced the floor, always circling,
unable to be still when you sang.
You kindled a spark in my blood
as sweet as a love affair
The Dreaming Path 