Today the prompt is to write a poem based on the myth of Narcissus.
(I am treating this subject VERY laterally!)
There are many forms of beauty, as many as there
Are people who can see or hear or feel, and then
Some more beside.
But for me the epitome of beauty can be seen in
The hands of a skilled craftsman, in the grace and
Deft movements they employ.
And however the musician may consider himself
Above the ordinary mortal, his hands and the beauty
They create remain.
Showing posts with label guitarist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label guitarist. Show all posts
Sunday, 22 April 2018
Friday, 20 April 2018
GloPoWriMo 2018 - day sixteen
Today the prompt is a poem about 'play'.
The guitarist
A deep-voiced thundering, making the ground shake
And echoing in the very depths of your being.
And making you wonder.
A wall of impenetrable complexity, electric and wired
Encompassing you and spinning you round and round.
And making you nervous.
A soft waterfall, a streamlet flowing and bubbling
Down through ferns and trees, soothing you.
And making you breathe.
A solitary curlew, calling plaintively and ceaselessly
In the grey-blue-white heavens, and soaring.
And making you cry.
All of these and more,
The guitarist.
The guitarist
A deep-voiced thundering, making the ground shake
And echoing in the very depths of your being.
And making you wonder.
A wall of impenetrable complexity, electric and wired
Encompassing you and spinning you round and round.
And making you nervous.
A soft waterfall, a streamlet flowing and bubbling
Down through ferns and trees, soothing you.
And making you breathe.
A solitary curlew, calling plaintively and ceaselessly
In the grey-blue-white heavens, and soaring.
And making you cry.
All of these and more,
The guitarist.
Thursday, 13 April 2017
GloPoWriMo 2017 - day thirteen
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.
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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