A Perfect Triangle (For thebardisapoet)
The triangle’s a simple shape;
It’s simple, too, to play.
It has no valves, no reeds or keys,
Or visual display.
There is a string, a bit of cord:
You hold it in one hand;
In other hand, a metal rod.
At Maestro’s mute command,
You strike the triangle. It sounds
With a metallic ding,
And that is all you need to know,
If triangle’s your thing.
My friend was fuming, years ago.
I asked, “What’s on your mind?”
He told me, “The conductor’s mad!
“Did you hear? He’s assigned
"The triangle to me. How rude!
“A four-year-old could play it!
“A puny instrument! Thinks he, I’ve
“No talent? Why not say it?
"I’ve years of training, Joan!" he cried.
“I know I’ve been insulted.
“I’ll bet he just dislikes my face…
“And this thing has resulted.”
He held aloft his shameful shape.
“A child’s toy!” he grieved.
I tried to comfort him, but he
Was sure he’d been deceived.
He’d heard the “Phil” would bring rewards
And prestige to his name,
But now, it seemed, he’d been despised:
No honor; only shame
Would be his lot. He said good night,
And left in his disgrace.
We didn’t meet again for weeks.
Then, in a public place,
I saw the concert’s poster, and
I wondered if the fellow
Had quit the orchestra, enraged.
Behind me, I heard, “Hello!
"I hope you can attend tonight.
“It’s good to see you, pal.”
And there he was, all shining bright.
I dared not ask him, “Shall
"I see you playing harpsichord,
“Or xylophone, or horn?”
Of course, I said I’d come,
But thought, “What could transform
"My surly friend in such a way?"
Though pleased that he had changed.
I hurried home, myself, to change,
Prepared for something strange.
When, in the auditorium,
The lights came up on stage,
I saw him and his triangle.
Eyes bright, he turned the page.
The Maestro raised his arms and gave
The upbeat. They commenced;
The music shone. My friend sat still.
I waited, shoulders tensed.
All glorious the sound came forth.
My friend sat, eyes on score,
And counted rests; and his excitement
Blazed: there will be more!
The overture’s crescendo rose;
The music leaped and swelled.
My friend was waiting, silently.
The climax! Breaths were held.
Oh! All the players’ scores displayed
A curling quarter-rest.
The Maestro gave his cue; on high,
A clear, high, pure tone blessed
All beings present. One last chord
Resounded, lusty cry!
The triangle rang out. My friend
Stood tall, with head held high.
Then, afterwards, my friend embraced me.
Jubilant, he bounced.
I grinned, “What happened, Stetson?
“I thought you had long renounced
“That instrument!” He shook his head.
“I had it wrong, Joan dear.
“The triangle sounds perfect, when
“The time is right. So clear,
“The earth, the stars, the heavens seemed
“To glisten, when I played.
“My triangle completes the piece;
“All sorrow fled, afraid.”
“So you’re content? The Maestro’s not
“Displeased with you?” “No, we’re fine.
“Which instrument I play’s all one;
“I know there’ll come a time
“That’s right for me, and when it comes,
“I’ll do my best—not just
“To glorify myself; the entire
“Orchestra’s placed trust
“All in each other. We each have
“Our special part to play,
“And in cooperation, we
“Succeed and save the day.”
My friend’s contentment with his lot
Impressed me. Now I see,
I have my part to play, as well. Yes!
There is a place for me.
I need not wish that I could change;
I’m right, now, for this passage.
But if I do change, I’ll still fit
A new seat: that’s the message.
Joan Keating
October 5, 2014
