Violin

It may not be a cure for loneliness,

Devoting your idle hours to learning to play one,

But it’s a step in the right direction.

No more resentful daydreams about acquaintances

Whose inner circle of friends was closed to you.

No more useless remorse about being too slow

To reply to all the voices you’ve recognized

On your message machine. You’ll have your hands full

Confronting the immediate challenge of wooden fingers

And squeaky strings. Slowly, over months,

By fits and starts, you’ll proceed from the stage

Of raw beginner to advanced beginner

Who can make a familiar tune recognizable,

Playing it through each time with fewer mistakes.

Even if you never progress to playing with others,

You’ll earn the right to imagine yourself included

In a band of anonymous folk musicians who’ve welcomed

As best they can the songs and dances

Tradition has passed to them. You will almost

Feel those others beside you, resting their chins

On their chin rests just as you’re doing,

Fretting the strings with one hand while lightly

Using the other to draw the bow.

If you keep at it, the instrument

Will seem an obliging partner who’s willing

To play along whenever you feel like practicing,

Glad to repeat a phrase till you master it

And to take a break whenever you need one.

And if, while shut in its case, it daydreams

Of the few who played it before it came

Into your possession, you won’t consider them rivals.

You’ll feel beholden to them for welcoming

Into their families the guest you’re welcoming,

For bestowing upon it the care you’re bestowing.

And if their company still isn’t enough to satisfy

Your craving for fellowship, think of the people

Destined to play it after it leaves your hands.

It’s not impossible that one of them

May consider making the violin his profession.

And if he has second thoughts after a year,

Maybe his sister will take it up and decide

The violin is her destiny. Of course her teacher,

After six years of lessons, may match her up

With an instrument that’s been played over centuries

By a score of professionals. But that doesn’t mean

Your violin won’t have a special place in her heart

As the one she loved first. If she passes it on

To a beginner, she’ll encourage the student

To think of the earliest owners of her instrument

With special consideration, how they lived in an era

When music had yet to receive the recognition

It would come to count on. They never dreamed

That every county across the land would one day

Sponsor a band or orchestra, and many factories

And many prisons. And just as you dream the scene

Of the teacher’s exhorting her student, so you can dream

The scene of the inmate’s signing the schedule

For an hour of practice in the practice room

That’s always open. If a general lockdown

Keeps him confined that day, he’ll write a letter

Asking the warden for an extra hour of practice

On next week’s schedule. And if his appeal

Receives no answer, he’ll write again.