The first harsh cough out of the pipes
and then a violin tuning over and over,
those twisting harmonies: they are clearing the way.
The switching of the bow down close to the screw,
each vacillating scratching note,
probes into the old sore spot, patiently revisiting.
No music until that painful overture.
Not yet not yet is what they are saying
with the shiver among the strings, the bassoon
vibrating and a tread everywhere marching,
getting closer now. Light on the singer:
she stands ignoring a loose curl of hair
blown across her neck, her breath comes quiet,
shallow inside that extravagant bodice.
Not yet not yet, the deep inhalation
and the opening high note. How long to wait
for the liberating glance – How long do I have,
do I seem trapped on the edge, will I ever
step away? But this is the moment she loves
even if it wears patience to listen
to the flutes quavering.
We want blood and arias,
and the big scene in the graveyard
where she rises from the tomb and sings
loud enough, long enough to send them all
scuttling home to silence.
Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin from Collected Poems (The Gallery Press, October 8th, 2020)
