Guitar Poems - Poems For Guitar
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The Guitar Of Light - Poem by Sayeed Abubakar
It seems someone has cast a dark net
and the town has become a trout caught in that net;
It seems no morning has ever approached here,
the town has sub-merged in an over-flowing darkness.
The town seems to be an island of fairy tale.
It seems someones, like giants, are snatching away
the ornament from a teen girl's forehead
and then devouring her bone-marrow with rapture.
It seems someones, by tearing the civilization into pieces,
are eating up finally its bones and flesh.
Hadn't ever a single monk or saint come
amid the darkness here?
Then you, o poet, take the responsibility
and play the guitar of light into this darkness.
[Translation of the Bengali poem 'Alor Guitar' taken from the poet's first book 'Pronoyer Prothom Pap' (1996) ]
Comments about The Guitar Of Light by Sayeed Abubakar
The Guitar Of Light
The Guitar-La Guitarra
Federico García Lorca
Song Of The Guitar.
The Old Guitar
James Whitcomb Riley
With A Guitar, To Jane
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Guitar Concerto - Senryu
While Playing My Guitar
The Lady To Her Guitar
Emily Jane Brontë
A Gibson Guitar
Dave Alan Walker
* * * The Guitar Was Singing
A Guitar Song
The Man With The Blue Guitar
When His Guitar Cries
My Guitar Hurts
Lovina Sylvia Chidi
Benjamin Plays Bass Guitar
As My Guitar Gently Weeps
Teaching A Seven-Year-Old To Play Guitar
Me And My Guitar
This Old Guitar (For Juan)
David Gilmour's Guitar
An Old Dusty Guitar
Guitar Of Beauty
Emmanuel George Cefai
Ellie Daphne van Stralen
The Guitar Man
Like Spanish Guitar?
A Girl With A Guitar
My Beloved Guitar
The Guitar And The Leather Jacket
With My Guitar
The Guitar Player
A Guitar Made Of Cords/Gitara Od Zica
A Guitar At Two In The Morn
While Her Guitar Gently Weeps
Strumming The Guitar
Guitar Or Book
The Body Of Your Grandfather's Guitar
Ramo Music (8-String Guitar Master) & R..
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My Guitar Is Silent Now
Lawrence S. Pertillar
Paco De Lucia In Guitar Strings
These Guitar Tones
Peter S. Quinn
He Strums His Old Guitar
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The Old Guitar
Neglected now is the old guitar And moldering into decay; Fretted with many a rift and scar That the dull dust hides away, While the spider spins a silver star In its silent lips to-day. The keys hold only nerveless strings-- The sinews of brave old airs Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings So closely here declares A sad regret in its ravelings And the faded hue it wears. But the old guitar, with a lenient grace, Has cherished a smile for me; And its features hint of a fairer face That comes with a memory Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place And a moonlit balcony. Music sweeter than words confess, Or the minstrel's powers invent, Thrilled here once at the light caress Of the fairy hands that lent This excuse for the kiss I press On the dear old instrument. The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem Still blooms; and the tiny sets In the circle all are here; the gem In the keys, and the silver frets; But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them-- Alas for the heart's regrets!-- Alas for the loosened strings to-day, And the wounds of rift and scar On a worn old heart, with its roundelay Enthralled with a stronger bar That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay Like that of the old guitar!
Song Of The Guitar.
In the tenth year of Yuanhe I was banished and demoted to be assistant official in Jiujiang. In the summer of the next year I was seeing a friend leave Penpu and heard in the midnight from a neighbouring boat a guitar played in the manner of the capital. Upon inquiry, I found that the player had formerly been a dancing-girl there and in her maturity had been married to a merchant. I invited her to my boat to have her play for us. She told me her story, heyday and then unhappiness. Since my departure from the capital I had not felt sad; but that night, after I left her, I began to realize my banishment. And I wrote this long poem -- six hundred and twelve characters. I was bidding a guest farewell, at night on the Xunyang River, Where maple-leaves and full-grown rushes rustled in the autumn. I, the host, had dismounted, my guest had boarded his boat, And we raised our cups and wished to drink-but, alas, there was no music. For all we had drunk we felt no joy and were parting from each other, When the river widened mysteriously toward the full moon -- We had heard a sudden sound, a guitar across the water. Host forgot to turn back home, and guest to go his way. We followed where the melody led and asked the player's name. The sound broke off...then reluctantly she answered. We moved our boat near hers, invited her to join us, Summoned more wine and lanterns to recommence our banquet. Yet we called and urged a thousand times before she started toward us, Still hiding half her face from us behind her guitar. ...She turned the tuning-pegs and tested several strings; We could feel what she was feeling, even before she played: Each string a meditation, each note a deep thought, As if she were telling us the ache of her whole life. She knit her brows, flexed her fingers, then began her music, Little by little letting her heart share everything with ours. She brushed the strings, twisted them slow, swept them, plucked them -- First the air of The Rainbow Skirt, then The Six Little Ones. The large strings hummed like rain, The small strings whispered like a secret, Hummed, whispered-and then were intermingled Like a pouring of large and small pearls into a plate of jade. We heard an oriole, liquid, hidden among flowers. We heard a brook bitterly sob along a bank of sand... By the checking of its cold touch, the very string seemed broken As though it could not pass; and the notes, dying away Into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament, Told even more in silence than they had told in sound.... A silver vase abruptly broke with a gush of water, And out leapt armored horses and weapons that clashed and smote -- And, before she laid her pick down, she ended with one stroke, And all four strings made one sound, as of rending silk There was quiet in the east boat and quiet in the west, And we saw the white autumnal moon enter the river's heart. ...When she had slowly placed the pick back among the strings, She rose and smoothed her clothing and, formal, courteous, Told us how she had spent her girlhood at the capital, Living in her parents' house under the Mount of Toads, And had mastered the guitar at the age of thirteen, With her name recorded first in the class-roll of musicians, Her art the admiration even of experts, Her beauty the envy of all the leading dancers, How noble youths of Wuling had lavishly competed And numberless red rolls of silk been given for one song, And silver combs with shell inlay been snapped by her rhythms, And skirts the colour of blood been spoiled with stains of wine.... Season after season, joy had followed joy, Autumn moons and spring winds had passed without her heeding, Till first her brother left for the war, and then her aunt died, And evenings went and evenings came, and her beauty faded -- With ever fewer chariots and horses at her door; So that finally she gave herself as wife to a merchant Who, prizing money first, careless how he left her, Had gone, a month before, to Fuliang to buy tea. And she had been tending an empty boat at the river's mouth, No company but the bright moon and the cold water. And sometimes in the deep of night she would dream of her triumphs And be wakened from her dreams by the scalding of her tears. Her very first guitar-note had started me sighing; Now, having heard her story, I was sadder still. "We are both unhappy -- to the sky's end. We meet. We understand. What does acquaintance matter? I came, a year ago, away from the capital And am now a sick exile here in Jiujiang -- And so remote is Jiujiang that I have heard no music, Neither string nor bamboo, for a whole year. My quarters, near the River Town, are low and damp, With bitter reeds and yellowed rushes all about the house. And what is to be heard here, morning and evening? -- The bleeding cry of cuckoos, the whimpering of apes. On flowery spring mornings and moonlit autumn nights I have often taken wine up and drunk it all alone, Of course there are the mountain songs and the village pipes, But they are crude and-strident, and grate on my ears. And tonight, when I heard you playing your guitar, I felt as if my hearing were bright with fairy-music. Do not leave us. Come, sit down. Play for us again. And I will write a long song concerning a guitar." ...Moved by what I said, she stood there for a moment, Then sat again to her strings-and they sounded even sadder, Although the tunes were different from those she had played before.... The feasters, all listening, covered their faces. But who of them all was crying the most? This Jiujiang official. My blue sleeve was wet.
The Guitar-La Guitarra
The weeping of the guitar begins. The goblets of dawn are smashed. The weeping of the guitar begins. Useless to silence it. Impossible to silence it. It weeps monotonously as water weeps as the wind weeps over snowfields. Impossible to silence it. It weeps for distant things. Hot southern sands yearning for white camellias. Weeps arrow without target evening without morning and the first dead bird on the branch. Oh, guitar! Heart mortally wounded by five swords. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Empieza el llanto de la guitarra. Se rompen las copas de la madrugada. Empieza el llanto de la guitarra. Es inútil callarla. Es imposible callarla. Llora monótona como llora el agua, como llora el viento sobre la nevada. Es imposible callarla. Llora por cosas lejanas. Arena del Sur caliente que pide camelias blancas. Llora flecha sin blanco, la tarde sin mañana, y el primer pájaro muerto sobre la rama. ¡Oh guitarra! Corazón malherido por cinco espadas.
With A Guitar, To Jane
Ariel to Miranda:-- Take This slave of music, for the sake Of him who is the slave of thee; And teach it all the harmony In which thou canst, and only thou, Make the delighted spirit glow, Till joy denies itself again And, too intense, is turned to pain. For by permission and command Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, Poor Ariel sends this silent token Of more than ever can be spoken; Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who From life to life must still pursue Your happiness,-- for thus alone Can Ariel ever find his own. From Prospero's enchanted cell, As the mighty verses tell, To the throne of Naples he Lit you o'er the trackless sea, Flitting on, your prow before, Like a living meteor. When you die, the silent Moon In her interlunar swoon Is not sadder in her cell Than deserted Ariel. When you live again on earth, Like an unseen Star of birth Ariel guides you o'er the sea Of life from your nativity. Many changes have been run Since Ferdinand and you begun Your course of love, and Ariel still Has tracked your steps and served your will. Now in humbler, happier lot, This is all remembered not; And now, alas! the poor sprite is Imprisoned for some fault of his In a body like a grave - From you he only dares to crave, For his service and his sorrow, A smile today, a song tomorrow. The artist who this idol wrought To echo all harmonious thought, Felled a tree, while on the steep The woods were in their winter sleep, Rocked in that repose divine On the wind-swept Apennine; And dreaming, some of Autumn past, And some of Spring approaching fast, And some of April buds and showers, And some of songs in July bowers, And all of love; and so this tree,-- O that such our death may be!-- Died in sleep, and felt no pain, To live in happier form again: From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star, The artist wrought this loved Guitar; And taught it justly to reply To all who question skilfully In language gentle as thine own; Whispering in enamoured tone Sweet oracles of woods and dells, And summer winds in sylvan cells; - For it had learnt all harmonies Of the plains and of the skies, Of the forests and the mountains, And the many-voiced fountains; The clearest echoes of the hills, The softest notes of falling rills, The melodies of birds and bees, The murmuring of summer seas, And pattering rain, and breathing dew, And airs of evening; and it knew That seldom-heard mysterious sound Which, driven on its diurnal round, As it floats through boundless day, Our world enkindles on its way: - All this it knows, but will not tell To those who cannot question well The Spirit that inhabits it; It talks according to the wit Of its companions; and no more Is heard than has been felt before By those who tempt it to betray These secrets of an elder day. But, sweetly as its answers will Flatter hands of perfect skill, It keeps its highest holiest tone For one beloved Friend alone.