Monthly Archives: March 2016

Versatile instruments,
Bassoons may sound like a cello played by an angel
One minute and an eight-hundred-pound cat
Looking for canaries the next.
(They have been compared to potato guns, bongs,
And farting bedposts. No lie.
I heard a work for four bassoons
And the only thing I could think
Was, I wonder what they had for lunch.
Must have been good.
I know I should have been concentrating on the music,
But I couldn’t help it. It was just so funny
And all I could do not to laugh.)
They’re devilishly hard to play
Four feet five inches tall,
But don’t be deceived:
Under that finish as black as
An undertaker’s suit
Lies double trouble.
Bassoon hold within their depths
A sound tube extending from the bell
Down to the boot (or butt) which
Folds over on itself to reach toward
The bocal, the wing joint, and finally, the reed.
Shiny chrome keys cling to the dusky barrel
The whole length of the diabolical assembly,
Tempting young musicians to come and play,
Promising easy play, popularity and fame
All of which are unlikely for most players.
They must be quick, especially with their thumbs
If they are to play well. And to play superbly they must
Cover some tone holes partially, some fully,
And they may find their fingers simply can’t move that fast
And they have to play the saxophone.
There’s no shame in that: it’s just a matter of physiology, neurology,
Persistence, and possession of the instrument by some evil force.
Not everyone can fight that.
Some can, of course, and practice long hours and endure all sorts of deprivations,
Headaches and stiff fingers and making reeds.
Reeds are the bane of every woodwind player’s existence.
Players may buy reeds, but most prefer to make their own from cane.
One extraordinary bassoonist I know
Uses Glotin cane that she orders from Maryland.
She says, “Double reeds are a PAIN!”
She puts them in her mouth so that they don’t dry out,
These temperamental babies who are like babies.
If the water is too hot, the reeds open up and won’t play.
If it’s too cold, they close up and won’t play.
They don’t like (in no particular order)
Humidity, dryness, changes in location
And they sometimes won’t play
For no reason at all.
That’s why she carries several reeds in various stages.
As if playing the instrument wasn’t hard enough
Bassoonists have to maintain their reeds
On the fly.
It’s remarkable that any of them can
Play at all.
But they do
And, in the right hands
It’s beautiful.
Just beautiful.

Dan Verner
March 11, 2016

That’s what I thought as I walked

Through the colonnade-like structure

A stoa of sorts

Along the front wall of the Giant food store

In the Westgate Plaza Shopping Center

On the busy suburban six-lane Route 234

On a chilly March afternoon.

The shopping center,

A strip mall really, has no plaza that I can find.

The developers must have liked the sound of it,

Had wanted to jazz it up a bit.

It is euphonious,

A gold star for euphony, then,

For you, faceless and unknown developers.

So, no plaza but

A stoa, and a small one at that,

About fifty feet long

With three lintels eight feet up

Held by a brick post on one side and

A brick wall on the other,

Barely the width of a shopping cart.

No arches, but I was somehow

Minded of the stoa at Athens where

Zeno the Stoic met his students

Except here instead of ancient Greeks in tunics

(Who didn’t know they were ancient)

Clustered around their teacher

Walking, questioning, discussing

Perhaps letting the warm Mediterranean sun

Warm their faces between questions,

But this stoa lies hard by a traffic lane

At the end of rows of parking spaces

Providing sanctuary from cars,

Not beside olive groves,

And the only other occupant that day,

A nondescript man of no discernible age

Pushed a shopping cart with

A chuck of cheese

A potato

And an onion

In it.

I heard the clatter of the cart’s wheels

On concrete and thought I would have to

Move out of the way

But he turned off, no doubt to drive home

And later walk with his family

Questioning the nature of reality

And together seeking examples of

The beautiful and the good.

 

Dan Verner

March 7, 2016

Astronauts on the space station

Float with their arms folded

During interviews

Because

If they don’t

Their arms float up

And they look like polar bears

Begging for food

And

Since there are no polar bears

On the space station

Astronauts fold their arms.

I think polar bears

Would love to spend a year

On the space station

Provided, of course,

That NASA keeps them supplied

With fresh seals.

The bears would be glad to get away from

Shrinking ice floes

Hunters

And Coca Cola ad executives

Bothering them with a drink

They don’t want and can’t use.

Astronauts fold their arms

Not to barricade themselves

From torments real or imagined

Or so they don’t look like

Polar bears

Or even to dance the hora.

No, astronauts

Fold their arms

To embrace the world

Beneath them

To reassure all of us

Here below

And to hold us close

In peace.

 

Dan Verner

March 6, 2016

“I won’t be docked for winter,”

The bookstore manager said,

Meaning she wouldn’t have

Her pay cut because

It was too cold to take a census

In the cemetery.

(I think, It’s not that hard to

Find those people

Although they are really slow about

Returning their forms. This was my thought,

Not hers. Maybe it is hard work.

It might be if it can’t be done in the

Cold.

I take back “not that hard” and

Substitute “challenging,” which it must be,

Or she wouldn’t have said what she did.)

Anyhow, she’s happy

And I’m happy, too,

Not because I have not

Been docked for winter,

But because I have

Been docked for winter

In the sense that

During blizzard and frigid cold

I stayed at the dock,

A skiff moored at anchor

Away from storm

And all manner of calamity.

Our dockings?

Quite different,

But then

So are we,

And that makes us

Happy.

 

Dan Verner

March 4, 2016

For the students at the bus stop beside our house

The school bus stop sits

At the intersection of Grant and Barnett

Beside our house

And this morning four students (all girls)

Gathered on the sidewalk

In the early March chill

Wearing neither coat nor sweater

Holding their books to their chests

The way no boy would ever do.

One lanky fellow ambles up.

They do not speak to each other

But study the concrete

Sleepy, yawning, no doubt wishing

They were still in bed.

The yellow behemoth lugs up the hill

Pushing a rattling diesel signature

Before it.

I go out to collect the Post

And wave at the kids

As I always do if I’m out

When they are.

They stare at me,

Wondering who this person is

Up at such an ungodly hour.

They do not know that they are my people

And that I spent decades studying them in

Their natural habitat

And I would still be doing so were it not

For high stakes standardized tests

And absurd administrative policies.

As I think these thoughts, one boy

Runs down the hill and I smile

Thinking that the boys are always

Last minute.

Then, the as the bus is about to pull off

Another young man,

A sophomore by the looks of him,

Comes up the hill that makes

Older walkers stop to catch their breath.

He glides like a ballerina

Or a gazelle on the Serengeti Plains

And I watch his beautiful easy motion

With appreciation for something that I

No longer have.

 

When I taught, I started each class

With a Poem of the Day

And I toyed with the idea

Of doing that with these students

At this early hour

But decided not to since they

Won’t even return my wave.

Still, the urge to read “Mending Wall”

Or “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death”

To them is strong,

And so I have written this poem.

It is for you, my people.

And I want to say that I miss you,

Your sense of humor,

Even your drama,

Your mood swings

And your beautiful minds–

But don’t worry: it will all work out

Except when it doesn’t,

But if you survived whatever it was,

Take a break and catch your breath

And have at it again.

These words are from someone

Who knows you and has been

Around the barn a few times.

I hope for you

A good day with good conversation,

Engaging lessons

And something you like on the

Lunch menu,

And somewhere in there

Remember the man

Who waved as he picked up his paper

And next time think about waving back.

 

Dan Verner

March 3, 2016