TO EVELYN THE BLACK VIOLET (12/6/04)
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 the greeneries of superitalian views.
The idiom is the American one of the Baptists that
more Southeast we cannot go and in the solos it is
not bad. It is a pity that the choir is a bit too
sonourus, but so vibrant in his canourus
hyper partecipated involvement.
Suddenly astonished and agreeably charmed I discover
in a very sweet and beatiful chorus-singer the shapes
of my pharmacist who yesterday, playing in courtesy,
has pushed me to live to her in boldness one of my
Here the howlers of work songs transformed in
religious dignity whip my hears but give me also
pushes of strong intonation, in fact never Mozart
was heard so excited and even a bit forced.
Here is that it reappers in moon smile
my black violet with very short curly hair,
very sweet and fullfleshed features, deep and
playful eyes. It is a singular sign in the polar
ebony smile to refind the expression of my
so joyful and fancy meeting I had only yesterday.
Now there are percussion songs
of African generation and in their natural
persuasion soften the electric atmosphere.
Thanks to the concert interval I dare to stop
Evelyn, the beatiful black, and she is wonderfully
amused by the idea that I am writing a poem
on her, having in mind an 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 I sat exactly
by the side of Evelyn and so I could aknowledge
her grace: lucky circumstance.
I observe her swinging with her joined hands
singing Sanctify me and in the sober estetics
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 ivory laugh and reminds even the superb
Afterwords we'll speak also with her mother
and she will tell me of her life for music,
jazz pianist coming originally from Tennessee
in a tour as 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 again the white
violet, after the black one?
Marco Maria Eller Vainicher