Poem by Lola Ridge

The Fiddler

In a little Hungarian cafe
Men and women are drinking
Yellow wine in tall goblets.

Through the milky haze of the smoke,
The fiddler, under-sized, blond,
Leans to his violin
As to the breast of a woman.
Red hair kindles to fire
On the black of his coat-sleeve,
Where his white thin hand
Trembles and dives,
Like a sliver of moonlight,
When wind has broken the water.

1. Scandal
2. Dispossed
3. East River
4. Debris
5. Manhattan

Marion Angus The Fiddler ("A fine player was he")

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