I encountered two poems in college that have haunted me my entire life. Years ago, I wrote “Pax Aeterna,” my response to Sylvia Plath’s masterpiece, “Mystic.” I have finally written my response to the masterpiece by Rainer Maria Rilke, “Going Blind.”
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The violinist was a young black man I continually encountered at Civic Center BART Station, at all times of the day or night, during my final years of employment as an emergency Dispatcher for San Francisco. I was always deeply moved by an encounter, and I invariably thought of Rilke.
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For Dr. Stephen Gould
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I hear him before I see him.
It would be the sound of a violin being tuned
If it wasn’t so random, so raw, like someone hoarse,
Or, sketchy at times, skittering towards screech.
Below, the trains bellow their thunder, lording it under us.
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Where is the violinist? Only at a second glance
Do I find him by the stair to the street.
The searching rays from above just fail to reach him.
His conscientious demeanor while he plays is almost painful:
He stares as if he were blind.
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Slight, imbued with the beauty of youth,
His clothing is ancient, torn and mismatched.
The violin case open in front of him is empty of alms.
Uncaring people walking past are laughing and talking. No matter.
Absorbed, he plays his violin within this great assembly, undeterred.
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As I am the only one listening, perhaps he is playing to me.
What do I hear? I know not to listen for what he is lacking.
His grip of the bow is somehow off, unless he is playing for texture.
Indeed, almost all of the notes
He is sounding through the octaves have a gritty granularity.
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Are these moments together becoming a test?
The violinist is a melody his fingers have yet to achieve.
Reveling in my instrument, poetry, I sing his revelation,
Thereby fulfilling our mutual vocation.
I forgive those who have left him here, alone.
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What is a poet but a mender,
One who is tasked to encounter the people
For whom he must make things right.
Only at his end, only then can he joyfully sing,
“My Jesus, goodnight.”
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Coda
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His performance committed,
The violinist ever so gracefully falls into sleep,
His eyelids fluttering until they have shuttered his soul,
His chin bowing forward to rest on his chest.
The hand that balances the bow,
The hand that caresses the violin’s neck,
Droop down.
Soon, faded, he is little more than a dream within my head.
Then, I too begin to fade,
Becoming but a dream within yours.
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Saved, at last I stand
And grip a railing caked with the grime from countless hands.
Undaunted by the haunt of dirt that stains the stair,
Mindful not to slip or trip,
I hoist him with the vigor of joy,
Stepping up. Then, again. Then, endlessly again, beyond count.
Through the opening above, upon the air,
A burst of incandescence beckons.
Together, he and I climb high,
As if beyond all stepping, we would fly.
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Steven Golden
May. 2021
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