I. Box
Ficelle of steel
cigar box barrel
stave pernambuco
river shipped
Belly gauged for ear softer wood
whose fibers give, back for eye
flames mounting toward button of neck
its backward slant
Compare Bergonzi’s f-hole
to that of Gasparo da Salo
[Go ahead, laugh]
how each seems about
to fall forward seahorses
flanking the belly’s arch
itself shadowed by the bridge
spotted maple
with feet ears heart
Grab its shoulder
as a father his son’s
It will take years of daily playing
before the instrument begins to speak properly
before sound moves through
as sap once did
II. Gut
1922 Chicago, Armour Factory
Men work quickly over steaming tables scraping
pencil thin lengths of sheep intestine
to be soaked in cold then tepid water
scraped again with the split and beveled briar cane
steeped further scraped
steeped again in the next room
workers wear rubber gloves ring on index
copper thimble on thumb
taking one membrane from the stone jar on his left
each man worries it as his mother her rosary
places it in the jar to his right
every few hours jar to jar
solution by solution the thing reduced
to cleanest shred then
the sorting splitting with the narrow soutil
stringing on frames twisting bleaching with smoke
of sulfur freshening on the rooftop
above the city’s shambles
torsion more torsion—Does someone sigh?
arms outstretched finish men grip
the lines of gut cushion of horsehair
in each hand they pace the aisles of looms
All asperities shall be removed
placed now in folds of soft cloth
wiped with olive oil
and powdered glass or pumice
dried seasoned cut
graded coiled
into the lovely
paper envelopes
III. Gum
Knob of sound
rosin resin distillate
of Venetian terebrinth
turpentine’s
transparence
citron lozenge
friction powder
wrapped in flannel
IV. Stick
Muscle memory,
fretless–each tone
a slowed-down finding
Ribbon of rounded hairs
bound with waxed silk
thrust into wedge box of nut.
Don’t worry about the sound,
he said Moving from wrong
to right must entail discomfort
Heat increased, screws
tightened, mother of pearl slid
into its groove.
Down-bow, of course, has advantage
but up-bow plays into weight of hand
and arm
The movement forward sits in
the lap of the attack
That gesture—
like threading something into something
V. Provenance
Bow’s flash and cloud
infinite cabinet
amber washes
dragon blood saffron sweat-
stripped swath where first his
then my palm homes
Eye, ear,
my chest, a resonator
I thumb the chain of reprises,
compensations
each of the six dusts
stirred
When they settle
they stick they worry
they sound
Notes: Lines quoted from F. M. Alexander, The Use of the Self (1932) and William Pleeth Cello (1982).
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 1.
Cassandra Cleghorn’s first book, Four Weathercocks, is forthcoming from Marick Press in March 2016. Her poems have appeared in many journals including The Paris Review, Yale Review, New Orleans Review, Poetry International and Narrative. She lives in northwestern Massachusetts where she teaches at Williams College and serves as associate editor of Tupelo Press.
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