cello

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There’s Something About A Cello

Cellos are resonant. It feels to me as if the bow were playing
right across my heart rather than the strings. Talk about a cello in
your poem, or if you don’t love the sound of a cello, let your poem
speak about delight in another instrument.
Peeling a Potato
Pablo Casals should see me now,
bowing this fat little cello,
peeling off long white chords.
I am not famous like Pablo,
not yet. The amphitheater
of the kitchen sink is nearly empty.
As the notes reel out,
I hear only the hesitant clapping
of a few moist hands.
I am playing the solo variations
of J.S. Bach. Wonderfully,
I sweep with my peeler. See me lean
into the work, tight lipped,
the light in my hair. Inspiration
trickles over my handsome old hands.
Ted Kooser
in Weather Central
On Bach’s Cello Suite No. 2 in D Minor
Prelude

 

Grooming

Khan

Weather Central
Each evening at six-fifteen, the weatherman
turns a shoulder to us, extends his hand,
and talking softly as a groom, cautiously
smooths and strokes the massive, dappled flank
of the continent, touching the cloudy whorls
that drift like galaxies across its hide,
tracing the loops of harness with their barbs
and bells and pennants; then, with a horsefly’s touch,
he brushes a mountain range and sets a shudder
running just under the skin. His bearing
is cavalier from years of success and he laughs
at the science, yet makes no sudden moves
that might startle that splendid order
or loosen the physics. One would not want to wake
the enormous Appaloosa mare of weather,
asleep in her stall on a peaceful moonlit night.
Ted Kooser
in Weather Central

Grooming

set the part

braid the tail

ring the saddle

ride the trail

by Jeanne 4/2/2018