As the sun spins into its solstice, and the night encroaches as far into the day as it’s brave enough to venture, we welcome our third (or second, depending on your view of AI) Guest Poet of the Advent Calendar, and it’s a beloved return to these Doors of the wonderful Rachel Wiggans…
Mistressing
So why the violin at eight?
Because someone who was twenty-eight
or thirty-eight
or somehuge age had picked me up
and taken me to where
I almost couldn’t breathe
And I wanted my fingers to sing too.
Starting at nine
or twenty-nine
or thirty-nine
or somehuge age would have sounded
just as hideous
until those fingers learnt to sing.
Parents, teachers,
even mayors
must hear those screeching fingers until
until
until
until they learn to sing
(or even if they never do)
just for the love of breathing.
I mentioned yesterday that Luci and I were spending the evening with our friend Rachel, and as always it was a glorious evening: Front row seats (by accident rather than design) for Glacier, a fantastic new festive play at Oxford’s Old Fire Station theatre, with long-awaited catch-up drinks either side. We like going to the theatre in Oxford together, as much for the chance to dissect and discuss the play over a glass of wine or two afterwards, although very often we end up talking about anything and everything else instead.
We realised on the bus into town that we hadn’t seen each other since January, so there was a whole 12 months to catch up on, although I feel still that we barely scratched the surface. This morning, however, I woke up to this beautiful poem which Rachel had written after reading yesterday’s Door, and Whatsapped to me in the small hours of the morning. I’m honoured to host it on the Poetry Advent Calendar. Here’s Rachel herself with a bit more:
“I really wanted to learn the violin as a child. I have owned this one since I was eight, and have only ever played it badly. So badly that when I was 15 and failed Grade 4 my teacher told me I didn’t deserve it and I should sell it to her.
She was right but I was enraged and worked bloody hard for Grade 5, got the pass mark and not one mark more (probably thanks to an indulgent examiner), then gave up lessons. For a few years I played fiddle instead because folk musicians were kinder about wrong notes, then I stopped playing altogether.
42 years later I picked it up again and discovered that I could play just as badly as when I was 22.Your age when you start doesn’t matter. Playing badly doesn’t matter. Loving it matters.”
Impossible to argue with that. Thank you Rachel, for your wisdom, your poetry, and above all, your warm and constant friendship. Let’s not leave it another year!
I first met Rachel when she and Luci were both working for Asylum Welcome. It would be a fitting tribute, therefore, if you enjoyed today’s poem, to throw a couple of coins in the online pot. I’d appreciate it so much. It’s up to you.
One other plug: On Saturday night, it’s the return of the Poetry Advent Calendar Christmas Eve Eve Live Spectacular (#PACCEELS)! I’ll be fannying about online for an hour, streaming myself reading a few favourites from this year and a couple of chestnuts from Calendars past too. I’d love you to join me.
Thanks again Rachel; sorry for forgetting the chips. Four days to go…
Owen x
The Poetry Advent Calendar 