Busker Poem by Ashley Akari

Alone, violin,
You stand at the unfriendly corner,
Waiting to draw the taut
Across the tense strings:
Passers-by, hostile, glare
Resenting your bright presence
As the darkness resents the flame.

You pour your roaring, ringing river
Into their cold, stone ears….
And then they smile.

Ah!
Music to wake Love in a slumber.
Lovely yet keen,
The notes wind about
The vice-ridden city,
Choking the deadly filth,
The evil lurking in lightless streets.
The vagrant lift their
Grief-heavy heads:
This is the Voice
They have longed to hear.

So winds your song,
Joyful as the rising sun,
Vital as wind,
Thrilling as the never-ending sky:
Strong, Ah, almost too strong
To bear.

This is the music born of Angels!


Clink!
Now twisted, soiled silver
Trickles into the red, woollen hat.
Tight hands,
Calloused with care and labour,
Throw their grudging gift
Of lightest wealth—

Their poor return
For a rare tune.

But surely, this Gift of Heaven
Is worth more than fifty cents?