Stringy Love

We were rehearsing Tristan, I recall,

When I met her eyes across the hall;

I knew it then, I knew it there -

I’d found the love of opera and air.

I think I’m falling inamorata,

She nocturnes my head, my sweet sonata;

I’m an utter wrequiem, it’s such a chore;

I try to stave it off, but you know the score -

Each time she plays, she gives me a trill,

Our dynamic is to fight for; really, to kill!

This must be love without diminuendo;

One day I’ll make a concerto-ed effort, I’ll insistendo,

To be the madriman to her madrigal,

To be the variation to her theme, my dearest pal.

To pluck up my courage before it’s too late:

To convince her that she is my solmizate.

I just want to hear her say ‘I crescenDO’,

But I cant-icle, I’m just too scherzo to woo;

When she sets me a-tremolo, I just sound falsetto,

Oh it’s too troppo - let me be libretto!

One interval I put some resin on her bow,

I’d hoped the gesture would be a tender show;

But fate is oh so delicato -

I’d confused the resin with Joe’s haribo.

Back in rehearsal, she was furioso;

Uncontrollable vibrato, I was very lacrimoso.

Her bow was staccato-ed to her chair,

Pick ‘n mix gunk clogging every fine hair.

I wanted to bagatelle her but my fear was too largo,

I stayed mute, hoping she’d r(e)lentando.

I tried to conduct myself con brio,

Hoping she’d see the capriccio.

Something of the situation struck a chord,

Or maybe it’s that my 32-bar rest made me bored;

So I opted to write her a little grace note,

And sidled up, slipping it near her coat.

‘Don’t say it’s overture’, I began,

And onwards, my writing, like this, just ran:

‘My fair prima donna, you are my diatonic,

But I’ve been feeling so melancholic;

‘You’ve been unduly o(b)stinato;

The haribo was just an acciaccato,

I swear I’m really all pro and no chaconne!

And I really do not wish to harp on,

‘As writing’s not my forte, that is true;

But I’m in truly deep treble over you.

We’d be amazing ensemble, together, tutti,

I may be living a fantasia, appassionati,

‘But you are my hymn, paean, rhapsody,

I can’t sleep at night; it’s only you I see;

You’re a virtuoso, my lead soprano,

And so I’m begging you; just don’t segno’.

I left off with a coda, one last whinge:

‘You could have your tierce de pic(k)ardie of the strings,

But I implore you, I pray, please piccolo me!’

Placed in her double bass case; I wait and see…

Andante, the next day, hey presto:

For a while, I waited, calma, modesto.

The truth would surely out fairly bas-soon,

In a fugue state, I just sat out the mournful tune.

But fate is an imperioso, nasty force,

Sotto voce, it only leads to remorse.

I’d placed the note in Joe’s case in my terror;

I’d repertoired my previous, grievous error.

Oh fate, with your allegross misconduct,

Now I’m utterly, totally, tonally fucked.

What could be divertemento for some was just Miserere for Mei.

(Luckily I shushed Joe with some chewies and a plea).

There’s no grand finale to this sad little symphony,

So I hope you can lend me some of your sympathy.

With no hopeful interlude, it’s been filled con dolore,

It was a gavotte full of rot, from prelude to encore.

Every day I gaze at her over a sea of strings

But I guess I’ll just have to bear it on the chin,

That’s what I do best - it’s just a day in the life -

Of your average, back-desk, third violin.

© - Bea Wood