I sit trembling
Shaky
Nervous
In the shadow of the curtain

Around me, other shadows,
The orchestra players, the crew of this ship,
Sit in silence,
Clutching sweat-moistened instruments
Waiting
For the moment
When the curtain will go up
And we will play and give up, give back, bare our souls
To an unfeeling audience.
I tremble.

The critics, dark-eyed and dark-clothed, sit
With pencil and paper
The tools of doom.
I would rather face a gun at twenty paces
Than a loaded quill.
They sit, attentive, half reposing,
Waiting
To hear us take up wood and steel
And create music,
Letting our hearts escape through the shadowy strings
And bended bows
So they can hear
And study
And disapprove.
I tremble.

The conductor’s footsteps, like the echoing metronome,
Announce the arrival of our leader.
We are crew, he is the captain;
We the racing team, and he the driver
Directing our power and our love
To make music.
He knows us and we know him, as ship and rudder,
And as long as we play for him,
For the leader,
For the music,
For the beauty and fury of the mounting, angry music,
We can never fail.
But playing for the paper,
For the critic,
For the pencil…
I tremble.

The curtain rises.
We blink and squint, the hot stage lights
Beating down upon our nervous hands,
Blotting out
Everything, everyone, except
The conductor, standing reverently at the podium,
Now cloaked in lightning silhouette
And the shadows of the orchestra around me.
With a silvery motion, like moon on the waves,
He flourishes his bright baton
Calling us to attention.

And as I lift my violin
And set the bow aright,
I understand.
Beneath the sun-shot lights,
The audience has ceased to exist.
We are alone.

There is no one but the conductor and me.

And I play.