I know a drummer who must bite his tongue
To keep the beat. And trumpets seem to make
Their players blind. Guitarists’ arms are slung
In an embrace. And saxophonists quake.
But when I hear Ljova I’m agape
Not only at the music he extracts
From strings, like precious liquor from a grape,
But at the drama with his bow he acts.
Is ecstasy what makes him seem to smile?
Or is he grinning through some private hell?
He’s slicing at an angle all the while.
A killer or a lover? I can’t tell.
But if music issues from the soul, it’s clear
Ljova’s soul is vast, and rich, and dear.
Sonnet by Rob Weinert-Kendt, presented on my 30th birthday. 🙂
Thank you, Rob!