Eugene Park

Cellists and Dreams


The sting of metal against flesh
Increases as I force myself to play
with blistered fingers

like a drowning person that struggles
to stay above the surface
I struggle to stay in rhythm

Every vibration that pulsates through the instrument
is amplified as I crescendo to the climax

A cloud of resin hovers over the bridge
Rhythm hits a ludicrous speed
As that of a heartbeat of a cornered prey

I rise and rise until
I stop
and exhale

Resting for what seems to be endless measures
The accompaniment playing tunes that slowly swell
and fall in volume

Then, with a subtle motion
I place my bow on the string and increase
the tension in my arm

In a swift motion
I am broadcasting
the deep, thick and rich tones of my life

Slowly but ever surely I play higher and louder
until the torque of
my arm is at its maximum
Fingers are nothing but a blurred movement
and my body movement renders me
Unrecognizable

Then it happens
I meet the enemy
A wrong note

Inside I sharply wince
An ice cube has been put down my back
However I must not show it

For what I don’t show
The audience will never know

Letting the music play
The doors of my common sense are flung open
And I am lost in my own sanctuary

I finish the piece       
with the confidence of a marching band
But with all the caution of a soloist
I finish
and take my bow




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