Zita is not the patroness of poetry

That would be really convenient. I have always wanted, very badly, to be into poetry or, even better, to be able to write poetry. I have to write a narrative poem for English Lit and hear I am doing anything but. I guess I've been told too many times that my stories need to be longer and I have lost the ability to say much in few words. Blah. So I sat down to do it and ended up writeing something like a story. I don't know how I'm going to get it down to poetry format and a decent length that wont make my classmates hate me when I have to read it aloud.

I am taking violin lessons this Winter! *dance* I haven't met the teacher they have there yet. They hide her office away under some stairs in a dark corner. It took me forever to find it. Then she wasn't there. Bother. I am going to take voice lessons too but I have to take a few prerequisite classes first. The voice lessons are going to be more important. I am ten times more a singer than a violinist but the violin is still so special to me that I am more excited about that.

So the violin lessons have been bouncing around in my head and the art project I'm doing right now (which you will probably get tired of seeing over Christmas break, so I won't go into detail yet) involves me drawing my violin. So I sat down to write a narrative poem. I wanted to write about something I had actually experienced so it had to be my story and the first thing that came to mind was the violin. Go figure. Do they call that 'stream of consciousness' writing where you just write whatever comes to your mind at the moment. When I do it, it makes for very short, choppy sentences and odd phrases that only make sense to me. A lot like what I do on this blog most of the time. I couldn't write a poem till I know the story I was going to tell so I wrote down what I remember feeling and thinking at two moments long long ago. Only time a sleep will tell if I can make it into a poem.

~*~

"What do you want to play" my mother asked me. Maybe if I'm quiet and don't look up, she will not ask again or expect an answer. Everyone plays an instrument. Someday I would too. But what? Names bounced around in my head, each hopping to be the one that made it into my mouth. Something different, something new. Not the Piano or the Guitar. Dad and Dana played those. But what sound did these other names make. Bassoon? Oboe, Clarinet? That thing that's like a guitar only round. What's that called? Cello, Violin? No, not the violin; every one plays that. I wonder what they sound like. What wonderful sound comes out of a bassoon? The Clarinet has a lovely sounding name but when you strum or pound or blow across it, what music does it make? None of these are safe. This one will be mine. Name... name... "What do you want to play?" My mother asks again. She doesn't know what anxiety she is causing. Panic. Name... name... a different name. "Banjo." I proclaim. My mother blinks. What is a banjo? I think I knew once but the image has flown. I think it has strings. Mother gets an encyclopedia and we look it up. She reads to me about it and I look at the picture. It's that thing that looks like a guitar only round. Darn. That's not mine. I want her to stop. Go away and let me go back to the game I was playing. Forget that I said anything. I'm too little to play the banjo or anything anyway. But she doesn't. She tells dad and our friends. They think it's interesting and always look so surprised. Why can't they forget? They forget all sorts of other things. Like how I'd like a doll for Christmas, and how I don't like cake or chocolate. I have to be introduced to every adult they know who plays the banjo. I have to look interested when they talk to me about it. I have to think of something to say.

Dana has piano lessons down town in a room with lots of electric keyboards and headphones. Dad and I go with her. I'm too little to play the piano. Dana doesn't like to. I wish I could wear the headphones and play so no one could hear but me. Dad is going to get some guitar strings at the music store. We walk together between the tall buildings, in and out of the square patches of sunlight. our shadows stretch in front of us. The music store is filled with warm tingling air. There are instruments everywhere. "Here is a banjo." Dad says. He shows me how to hold it and some chords to play when you are tuning. Dad can play anything. The banjo holds no interest for me. Why don't they forget? I know what most of the instruments are but they hold new magic when they are right there; real and solid. There is a violin on a special stand on a table. It is so quiet there, all by itself. We stare at each other, the violin and I. Violin is graceful and small but I am smaller. The polished wood seems to glow and the gentle swell and curves fill my vision. Someone in the shop is telling me to try it. Try what? They hand me the bow. A strange tool. It feels awkward in my little fist. You are supposed to draw it across the string. I don't want to pick up the instrument itself. It's too big for me. I might drop it. I see the beautiful wooden pieces scattered across the floor. The violin will have to stay where it is. I twist my arm around to draw the bow. Slowly, carefully, gently. Something in me is trembling and the world seems to have fallen completely silent. I can feel how very busy we are when we are trying to hold still. The brightest thing in the room is that wooden instrument. The pale horse hair makes contact with the silvery string. Clumsily, for all my shyness. The music is an awkward scrunchy sound. The shop keeper and dad, who have just appeared again, laugh, not unkindly. I get all jittery and try not to knock anything over as I replace the bow. I smile and laugh too. What a silly noise. Dad pays for his guitar strings and we leave. I look back. There is the violin. It still rings in my ears. I know it was not a nice sound, but it rang. Everything vibrated and tingled. The sound is bigger than me but I made it. I want to do it again.