While I am primarily a narrative poet, I wanted a version of this poem that was lyric poetry. I might well be able to publish this version.
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Dedicated to Dr. Stephen Gould
And For Alla Gallagher
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The violin case open in front of him is empty of alms.
Unlike others here in the station, he isn’t playing for profit.
Forsaking all ditties, he bows notes randomly across the octaves,
A prophet of the rainbow of sound that exists above mere music.
*
People, laughing and talking, pass to ascend by the stair to the street.
He cares not for these caravans,
But sits as if he is chosen to uplift the few who listen.
His smile is almost painfully bright.
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If his clothing is ancient, torn and mismatched, no matter.
He is imbued with the beauty of youth.
A ray of residual light, whether from a day or from a night,
Pools about his person, until it diffuses out.
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Even if no one is listening, as if tasked with a test, absorbed,
He showers his unmelodious notes upon this great assembly, undeterred.
Are there those who will thrill to a vibe from the beats of his bow?
Still stifled is a cheer…as the echoes of his notes begin to fly.
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Steven Golden
June, 2021
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I am including the Coda here, but I have actually excised it from the 2nd iteration. I would not publish it.
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Coda
His performance committed,
The violinist ever so gracefully falls into sleep.
Know that he will not be left alone,
Left defenseless here. No.
A listener hoists him with the vigor of joy
And steps the stair.
Through the opening above, upon the air,
A burst of incandescence beckons.
Together, the two of them climb high,
As if beyond all stepping, they would fly.
Steven Golden
June, 2021
stevengoldenpoetry 