there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle
βMarianne Moore, βPoetryβ
Well, all that fiddle
perhaps. But not this
sublime faddle, far
Β Β Β Β Β Β more important
than whatever βthis
fiddleβ might have been
(although granted not
Β Β Β Β Β Β the resonant
machine of spruce and
maple that we need
Β Β Β Β Β Β to hear certain
kinds of truth with).
Fiddle can sound as
Β Β Β Β Β Β if it had a
silly middle and
were thereby of use
for crumpling knowledge,
work delighted in,
devout attention,
Β Β Β Β Β Β into a ball
Β Β Β Β Β Β and tossing it
away in some slight
annoyance (but not
to every oneβs) and
(worse!) averting oneβs
gaze from what follows
it so doggedly:
fiddleβs dark shadow,
faddleβnot a past
tense of the verb we
have been fiddling with
Β Β Β Β Β Β but rather a
residue of all
that business of stringsβ
strings bowed and tickled
Β Β Β Β Β Β and pinched and pluckedβ
Β Β Β Β Β Β all that fiddling
to which Neroβs Rome
burned, they said, and to
which the high walls of
Amphionβs Troy rose
as its stones took wing,
settling down into
Β Β Β Β Β Β where they belongedβ
the faddle of lifeβs
rhythms of decay
and reconstruction,
Β Β Β Β Β Β once the fiddleβs
flying and sighing
intonations have
shaped all that faddle
in its final form.
Well, then the death of
all that importance
Β Β Β Β Β Β incident to
the fiddlerβs own death
βthe body, the mind
with their pains and woes
their cares and delights
Β Β Β Β Β Β their assessments
of what matters most
all fledβthe faddle
Β Β Β Β Β Β will settle down
in its newly found
place in existence,
played and playing, sung
and singing, ever
Β Β Β Β Β Β shaping anew
the sounds of what is
seen, the lights and shades
of what is heard, and
Β Β Β Β Β Β thereby giving
some previously
inconceivable
Β Β Β Β Β Β new meaning to
importance itself.
John Hollanderβs most recent book of poems is Picture Window (Knopf).