Antique Stradivarius

Antique Stradivarius

old man blue

penny-pinching panhandler

paying his due

on a sidewalk cafe storefront

violin straddling his shoulder

all the strings frayed

mostly snapped

like his arthritic fingers

sitting on the curb of his 

music

notes only in his dreams

a poor boy's talent

he will die with his

arms wrapped around his instrument

dirt poor

and quiet

old man blue

a blue man

buried in an unmarked grave

not a name to his song.

erin-cilberto

10/8/25

Reviews

[Jansy]

This poem perfectly encapsulates why my grandmother, who was a champion competitive eater, used to insist on buttering her Stradivarius before every high-stakes hot dog contest.
​You see, the frayed strings and the "blue man" with "notes only in his dreams" is a clear metaphor for the existential dread that arises when you realize the optimal bun-to-sausage ratio for a perfect bite-and-dip technique requires a resonating spruce top for structural integrity. If you don't butter the wood, the subtle harmonics of despair, much like the ones experienced by old man blue, interfere with the digestive rhythm. It's a tragedy as quiet and dirt-poor as a poorly seasoned mustard packet.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

What an interesting parallel....thanks for sharing this story, Jansy.
j.

[Zoe Richardson]

Isn't that what we all fear? Dying, alone and nameless with no one to remember us or notice we are gone? It's why we write. We have to fight this sorrow, this sense of namelessness. Sometimes observing the misfortune of others is a good kick in the pants.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you for your insightful words, Zoe.
j.

[Arundass TP]

Sorrowful poem . I can imagine how helpless he is.

sitting on the curb of his
music
notes only in his dreams
a poor boy's talent

Powerful Dramatic lines from your pen. Great

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you for your kind review, Arundass.
j.

[Ms claws]

Jacob,wonderful and sad visions at this reading.

So haunting.

Thank you.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you, Eternity.
j.

[redzone]

Jacob, your poem reminded me of the poet who used to sit in the underground hallway that linked the 1,2,3 trains and the L train to Brooklyn. He had his poems taped to the wall with NYT's articles about him and his poetry also taped up. He would just sit there, writing into his notepads and scraps of paper. One day he was just gone. I had wanted to talk to him and give him the poem I wrote to and for him, but missed my chance. I think about him once in a while.

So much hidden and perhaps wasted talent out there. People are amazing with what the create and yet it is only a small handful that "make it" or get recognized, except perhaps for the few that take the time to listen to them play, or sing or speak or dance. I wish I could engrave a marker for your violinist: "Here lies a maestro, creater of music and dreams."

-Curt

[jacob erin-cilberto]

It's a kind thought to give him a marker...he would have appreciated that.
Thank you, Curt.read moreIt's a kind thought to give him a marker...he would have appreciated that.
Thank you, Curt.
j.

[h d e rushin]

the last Strad. was made around 1736 (which is remarkable in itself) but most were made with such precision and attention to detail, along with quality materials, they've lasted until today. But this is the analogy you've created. Antonio Stradivari lived to be an old man, made a bunch of money, had a couple of wives, had a bunch of kids, and left a will and a grave for his people to squabble over. There is a link between this old man with a violin straddling his shoulder and a man who revolutionized violin making for the 18th century and beyond. Even if our graves are marked Jacob, our bodies will be unmarked. dana.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Yes, true, our bodies will be unmarked.
Thanks, dana.
j.

[Chris Shaw]

A must poignant write. He may be poor and buried in an unmarked grave, but for sure he will be remembered by those who listened to him playing. Whose music touched their soul. They will never forget. A really strong metaphor here j. Poetry touches the soul too.

Chris

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Yes, our strings are our lines, aren't they?
Thanks, Chris.
j.

[emmajoygreen]

Jacob... you've carried his into my dawn.. perhaps where it should be, could be, worlds quaring up,
flattening before my eyes. Your man is so real, so true or, more.. gasping for breath, desperately needing to win his battle and hear his spirit's music. You inevitably touch a chord.. (not trying to be clever) instead let's say my core. How often offer, share, words as if they've flown the planet and landed where they're wanted. Your man and his violin lives - yes, just about BUT tells the truth and nothing but..

'old man blue
a blue man
buried in an unmarked grave
not a name to his song.

Jacob I once saw a grave with only a crude wooden cross... but.. it stays in my mind because its music had stopped but will never be forgotten. Neither will your words, sir.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

And I gather you will always have that memory of the cross and wonder, who the heck is buried there and what that person's life was like.
Thanks for your accepting words on my poem.
j.