Poem of the Week, by Paul Hostovsky

The Violence of Violins

- Paul Hostovsky

It was in them, they would say.

It was what they were, what they

did. It was part of them, carved

into them like an F hole, like

a clef tattooed onto a biceps.

And there was nothing you

could say or do to change that.

It was their way. It was the way

of the world, and also of the sun

exploding a million miles away,

warming your soft cheek. Face

the music, they would say. Stop

listening with your eyes closed.

See the string tightened almost

to breaking, the bow torturing it

into song. Feel the skin stretched

over the drum so tightly it makes

your heart pound. And where

did you think it all came from,

the easy melody, the high tinkling

finery? We are hurt into beauty.

And you, up in the balcony, rising

to your feet, applauding fiercely, look

down at what your own hands are doing.

–

For more information on Paul Hostovsky, please click here: http://www.paulhostovsky.com/

–

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/pages/Alison-McGhee/119862491361265?ref=ts