| What would happen if a musician’s instrument... could speak? What would happen if the instrument... had a mind of its own? Follow me as I speak through the creative mind of Douglas Ordunio… … and listen to “The Cello” as it bleeds forth... |
The Cello
By Douglas Ordunio
When she plays with vibrato
I throb to her rhythm
Espresivo con brio
My burnished maple
Between muscular calves
Passionate estrus
Inflames my back
Her breath whispers
Quiet susurrations
Caress my neck
She polishes my scroll
Tightens my pegs
A moment electric
The horse hair excites me
My voice resounds
Elevated crescendos
Roulades rebound
Dance through the ether
Double stops
A greater thrill
My exaltation in a louder voice
Spiccato, jete, pizzicato
Her myriad methods of
Musical hedonism
Sometimes her mute lulls me
I whisper and murmur
Privately
Col legno
She hits with the wood of the bow
Her method to spank me
By the end,
A few tears
Drops of her sweat
Have fallen like dew
She dries me gently
I am centuries old
She is my fifth owner
She makes me feel young
She will probably die
Before my voice is silent
My sadness will know no bounds
I will rest behind glass
In a quiet guarded place
To be ogled by children
And curious students
My memories will remain
Of ecstatic nights
Bach on her balcony
She plays me naked
I sing to the heavens
By Douglas Ordunio
When she plays with vibrato
I throb to her rhythm
Espresivo con brio
My burnished maple
Between muscular calves
Passionate estrus
Inflames my back
Her breath whispers
Quiet susurrations
Caress my neck
She polishes my scroll
Tightens my pegs
A moment electric
The horse hair excites me
My voice resounds
Elevated crescendos
Roulades rebound
Dance through the ether
Double stops
A greater thrill
My exaltation in a louder voice
Spiccato, jete, pizzicato
Her myriad methods of
Musical hedonism
Sometimes her mute lulls me
I whisper and murmur
Privately
Col legno
She hits with the wood of the bow
Her method to spank me
By the end,
A few tears
Drops of her sweat
Have fallen like dew
She dries me gently
I am centuries old
She is my fifth owner
She makes me feel young
She will probably die
Before my voice is silent
My sadness will know no bounds
I will rest behind glass
In a quiet guarded place
To be ogled by children
And curious students
My memories will remain
Of ecstatic nights
Bach on her balcony
She plays me naked
I sing to the heavens
| Letters to the Publisher |
