Since I had the temerity to comment on a beginner's poem. I will let him respond to one of mine. Its purpose is rather different but it was done in a hurry for a theatre performance (three readers and an improvised violin accompaniment) in the spring last year and can doubtless be improved. The italicised lines are supposed to be indented but they do not come out that way in the post.

Out of tune

The sour squeal of hair on gut
A boy in ragged shorts scrapes a violin
It has only three strings
Does he notice?
Harmony. Disharmony. Sad sounds. Sympathetic vibrations.
The lament is for his mother, his sisters.
His father was killed before.
They are not sure how he died, or where or when - or why.
The missing string hisses.
He is dead. They saw a picture.
Sharp. Off key.
Perhaps his mother lives
Separated in the confusion
Before the bombs
And the men with guns.
Not pizzicato here. Use the bow!
He should have been at school
A violin lesson
The precious violin
His father had been going to mend the string.
Hold the tremolo. Hold it! Let it fade into the silence.
A soldier points a rifle at him.
The boy plays on.

The soldier pauses, then tells himself
That boy should not live
There must be no madmen in Utopia
Nothing so troublesome.
Left. Right. Left. Right. Atten-shun! Ready. Aim.
He takes aim.
Fire!
He cannot.
There is a giant hand in the way.
What evil magic is this?
Shoulder arms!
It cannot be real!
Motionless.
Why is it there?
Can he shoot through it?
Stand at - ease!
Confused, his mind returns to ‘Utopia’
The promised Utopia.
It had been promised before
More than once.
Stand at - ease!
At ease?
The scratchy tune irritates
A mosquito’s whine
A dentist’s drill
Chalk squeaking on a blackboard.
Present arms. Ready! Aim!
He takes aim.
The hand is still there.
Why?
Fire! Fire!! Fire!!!
Utopia
The mosquito
The dentist’s drill
Chalk
About turn!
It is his own hand!
No saviour
No god
No supernatural manifestation
At the double.
It is the boy who is unreal.
Quick march. Left. Right.
The mind searches for an explanation
What has he become to shoot at phantoms?
To believe in phantoms?
Left. Right. Left. Right.
He shakes his head
Afraid of the truth.
Left. Right. Left. Right. Right. Right. Right.
Wrong!
He cannot escape it.
He knows the answer.
He knew it before.
This is what war is.
Fall out!
He puts down the gun and walks away.
When he ignores their challenges, they shoot him.

The sour squeal of hair on gut
A boy in ragged shorts scrapes a violin
It has only three strings.
Thanks to a soldier’s vision
He will live to make it sing again.

Arg. For some reason, the post i typed about half an hour ago hasn't appeared. Arg.

Anyway... i'd like to apologise to Malchik for taking so long to reply to this, but i have had an extraordinarily bad week, and have not been in the correct frame of mind for poetry (at least, not this sort of poetry). I'd also like to point out that i an wholy unqualified to comment and suggest improvements to this poem, since my ability to string pretty words together has an affect on the ladies should probably not be counted as "poetry". Anyway...

I tend to take things at first glance, so i have to say that this is a very moving piece. I'm unsure if it is all a metaphor for some bigger meaning, but what i do know is that it easily conveys deep sorrow and... regret, if thats the right word. The whole Utopia thing is very well done, and i can understand that. I can't quite get my head around the military orders "Left. Right. Left...", but i assume they allude to how this Utopia would be brought about. The violin music and the way you describe its player is genuinely moving; even to a stone-hearted old git such as me (i laughed at Titanic. But then again, who didn't?). I'm a bit unsure about the giant hand metaphor, but i guess thats to do with the soldier's resistance to commit murder for a reason he, in some part of himself, knows to be fictious.

I cannot suggest improvement to this, partly because i lack the knowledge and experience to do this, and secondly because i'm not sure it needs any. This piece is sorrow-filled and, i think, heart-felt. All i can say is, well done Malchik. I'm very impressed.