Through the Eye of the Needle – My Manic Mentor

My Manic Mentor

you are daydreaming!”
he often interrupted
my exercises this way

“Stay in tempo
one-two-three and four!”
he kept time with a determined stroke
of the baton

“Follow the music.
Not your temptation!
The sheet! The sheet… ah!
What’s the sense?”

he sat down
and rummaged
through his coat pocket
for his pipe

“Let me tell you a story
Mr. Stowe,” —what he would call me
when it became obvious
I was all too maverick
to ever learn
the discipline

I had begun to believe that the professor
took me on as a pupil despite my lack of talent
simply because I (and perhaps I alone)
was willing to listen to his monologues

ones he would set into with the same abandon
as the vagabonds who approach hapless passers-by
on a busy street, engaging them in a witless banter
for the misfortune of having
caught their eye

in fact
he confided in me
how he had discovered
by putting a drop of saliva
across the eye of a needle
he could see things
in minute detail

creating for himself an instrument
much like a magnifying glass
but with a finer focus

I could only chuckle at his eccentricities
but found myself entranced by
my manic mentor

—being of a lunatic fringe myself
I didn’t mind listening to his tirades
for somehow I saw a movement
a poetic voice

much like the wildly ecstatic madness
of a jazz trumpeter blowing notes
in sixteenths and thirty-secondth
on a wild ride to the other side
of the night


6 responses

  1. I must admit that I have giggled ever now and again reading your fascinating post.
    At the relationship between you and the professor. Hmm…I admit that to me the
    professor comes through as a likeable garden gnome ( I haven’t got any ) .
    With long white beard and beady eyes
    on you. One, two, three and four. Not relaxing at all.:)

    Then your last paragraph turns it all upside down and I can feel the
    beauty of that trumpet.

    Liked by 1 person

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