An A. E. Stallings poem from the June issue of Poetry. I like the penultimate stanza:
One was fire red,
Hand carved and new—
The local maker pried the wood
From a torn-down church's pew,
The Devil's instrument
Wrenched from the house of God.
It answered merrily and clear
Though my fingering was flawed;
Bright and sharp as a young wine,
They said, but it would mellow,
And that I would grow into it.
The other one was yellow
And nicked down at the chin,
A varnish of Baltic amber,
A one-piece back of tiger maple
And a low, dark timbre.
A century old, they said,
Its sound will never change.
Rich and deep on G and D,
Thin on the upper range,
And how it came from the Old World
Was anybody's guess—
Light as an exile's suitcase,
A belly of emptiness:
That was the one I chose
(Not the one of flame)
And teachers would turn in their practiced hands
To see whence the sad notes came.
