Today's poem is by Betsy Sholl
Bass Line
for Milt Hinton
He needs a bigger body, bull fiddle
to make that thump, that deeper pulse, he needsfour fat inflexible strings made of gut
wrapped by steel so he can pluck each nightthat tree and its strange fruit, its slumped shoulders,
and bulging eyes. . . As he fingers the neck,as he frets, keeps the time, he can take
those naked feet hung like weights on a stopped clock.If it's too much to say one sight winds up
a life and keeps it running, stillsome things are burned into the eyes
like a maker's mark seared into walnutbelly or back, history always there,
no matter how the body is patchedand reglued, the gut and steel fine-tuned.
It's a deep groove in the brain,whether you play on top or behind the beat,
walk the line or break out: to know a man can bewaiting for a train and because the crowd's
riled up get taken If death unmakes him,maybe music's a way of weeping,
of cradling the broken body,its strained neck, its eyes that tried to jump
at what they saw, the sad hands, sad handsthat couldn't lift to brush a fly.
Night after night, rhythm wants to unwindthe wire cable from that tree, sway
the mob away from its drunken rush.So if he humps that stiff body night
after night, if he slaps and slaps? It's toaccent the offbeat, strengthen the weak, swing
like somebody who knows, who knows what it is.
Copyright © 2006 Betsy Sholl All rights reserved
from Asheville Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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