Knowing fingers caress a sleek neck, both taut and long;
Constant pressure evokes an eerie, soul-haunting song.
Exacting hands produce a plethora of intricate sounds;
Their origin is organic where Nature’s realm abounds:
The low rumble of thunder, a sated lion’s throaty purr,
The soft moaning of oceans, life’s pulse– strong and sure.
Tugging at the heart’s strings like a resounding tidal surge,
The bassist will bridge the dissonance; all harmonies converge.
Connecting first the primal with its syncopated screams,
The bassist reaches for the celestial— tranquil and supreme.
While the Norns fret with fate ‘til our life’s string is snipped,
The Muses’ touch inspires us, so should the bassist’s fingertips.
When Prometheus stole that divine spark, he became a sacred thief,
Yet when God sang the world into being, the bassist He bequeathed.
Virginia Fick October 2010
Virginia Fick teaches English composition, critical thinking, and technical writing at ECPI College of Technology in Richmond, Virginia. A prolific poet, her muse is a bassist. From a family of musicians, poets and artists, in between putting the finishing touches on her dissertation and her creative writing, she and her grandson Rowan are taking flute and clarinet lessons together.