TO EVELYN THE BLACK VIOLET

It is an evening like the Empire of the Lights
by Magritte and I arrive a bit breathless to the
great concert of the choir which follows
the tradition of Martin Luther King in
Atlanta, Georgia, and not of Sting.

So much Gospel energy is in this Villa Aurelia
with so soft tunes, with so rococo elegances
but even so fantastically cosy, almost Florentine
in the gardens and in the greeneries of superitalian views.

The idiom is the American one of the Baptists, that
more Southeast we could not go and in the Soul is
quite good. It is a pity that the choir is a bit too
sonorous, but so vibrant in his canorous
hyper participated involvement.

Suddenly astonished and agreeably charmed I discover
in a very sweet and beautiful chorus-singer the shapes
of my female pharmacist who yesterday, playing in courtesy,
pushed me to leave her in boldness one of my compositions.

Here the howlers of work songs, transformed in
religious dignity, whip my hears but give me also
pushes of strong intonation, in fact Mozart was
never heard so excited and even a bit forced.

Here is that it reappears in a moon smile
my black violet with very short curly hair,
very sweet and full fleshed features, deep and
playful eyes. It is a singular sign in the polar
ivory smile to find again the expression of my
so joyful and so fancy meeting I just had yesterday.

Now there are percussion songs
of African generation and in their natural
persuasion they soften the electric atmosphere.

Thanks to the concert interval I dare to stop
Evelyn, the beautiful black, and she is wonderfully
amused by the idea that I am writing a poem
on her having in mind a white model and
that I can change it into English to let her read it.
To be able to seize the instant: this is the secret.

Now I realize that by pure chance in the second half
of the concert I sat exactly by the side of Evelyn and
so I could acknowledge her grace: lucky circumstance.

I observe her swinging with her joined hands,
singing “Sanctify me”, and in the sober esthetics
of her silk scarf as in the large ring which holds
the neckline of her white blouse, I find a natural
elegance. It is her fine appearance which raises
in an ivory laugh and even reminds the superb
Chiara's smile.

Afterwards we'll speak also with her mother
and she will tell me of her life for music:
jazz pianist originally coming from Tennessee
in a tour as a contralto chorus-singer.

Anyhow I made a friendship thanks to the
association of a name (Violetta) to a person
and who knows if I'll meet once again a white
Violet, after a black one?

Marco Maria Eller Vainicher
(12/06/04)