Today the prompt is to write a ghazal. In my case I shall write something that is a bit like one, if I'm lucky.
The Guitarist.
The slender body of the musical man is rapt and focussed on strings;
His mind entertains no existence other than this, the tautness of strings.
The fingers caress the metalled tension, they stroke and strike, picking the tune
The rhythm of the chords walking the melody on the path of the strings.
The head is bent, hair falls across his eyes, hides the echoing pain of life
A light, silver then gold, that flashes in time with the melody of strings.
The intimacy shimmers, one man makes love to the guitar, to music
And caresses from their tightened length the thrill of the climax of the strings.
There are no words, no phrases, that can supplant this symbiosis of man
And instrument, no witchery can replace the ecstasy of the strings.
(c) 2ndwitch, 13/04/17
Over the years I have come to love the music of the guitar more and more. There is an exquisite sense of perfection in the mastery of human over strings, and this intrigues and beguiles me. There are some guitarists who are one with the instrument, there are some for whom the instrument is their lover, and as I once unfortunately described the sublime Martin Simpson . . . there are those who do both!!!
This poem is about the relationship between a man and his instrument - however good his voice, however good a singer, for me the guitar playing comes first. It could be Martin Simpson, it could easily be Michael Chapman, it could be John Doyle, it could be Steve Tilston, but this poem is actually about watching and listening to Ivan Drever.
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