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.
Related quotes
Music of the Stars
(to Johnny Alegre)
I heard you first as I walked by
Abelardo Hall
The faint strains of a lead guitar
I just could not ignore
Quietly I entered
the large dim-lit hall
Soon I sat there feeling
What I've never felt before
It was the sound of longing
through the strings of your guitar
A man surrendering his heart
A traveller soul-searching
reaching for the stars
A prayer from the heart
You didn't know me back then
But I can tell you now
The music that possessed you
Took me in its power
For on that day a wayward flame
Touched my very soul
And to this day it haunts me still
A song from long ago
It was the sound of longing
though the strings of your guitar
That echoed the longing in my heart
I know I won't forget
That mystical guitar
That song of timeless distant stars
poem by Sonya Florentino
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Selling the Guitar
The old strings of this guitar
they argue with my fingers
Perhaps the E string
with its proud tone
has better things to do
Maybe one night
this guitar
chose to become a piano
or speak other languages
Someone put the words
Out of tune
It no longer understands me
Now the songs refuse to be heard
Now things don't sound the same
And this guitar, I'm selling-
Perhaps has something against my fingers.
poem by Elvis Lantan
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Reading An Anthology Of Chinese Poems Of The Sung Dynasty, I Pause To Admire The Length And Clarity Of Their Titles
It seems these poets have nothing
up their ample sleeves
they turn over so many cards so early,
telling us before the first line
whether it is wet or dry,
night or day, the season the man is standing in,
even how much he has had to drink.
Maybe it is autumn and he is looking at a sparrow.
Maybe it is snowing on a town with a beautiful name.
"Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune
on a Cloudy Afternoon" is one of Sun Tung Po's.
"Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea"
is another one, or just
"On a Boat, Awake at Night."
And Lu Yu takes the simple rice cake with
"In a Boat on a Summer Evening
I Heard the Cry of a Waterbird.
It Was Very Sad and Seemed To Be Saying
My Woman Is Cruel--Moved, I Wrote This Poem."
There is no iron turnstile to push against here
as with headings like "Vortex on a String,"
"The Horn of Neurosis," or whatever.
No confusingly inscribed welcome mat to puzzle over.
Instead, "I Walk Out on a Summer Morning
to the Sound of Birds and a Waterfall"
is a beaded curtain brushing over my shoulders.
And "Ten Days of Spring Rain Have Kept Me Indoors"
is a servant who shows me into the room
where a poet with a thin beard
is sitting on a mat with a jug of wine
whispering something about clouds and cold wind,
about sickness and the loss of friends.
How easy he has made it for me to enter here,
to sit down in a corner,
cross my legs like his, and listen.
poem by Billy Collins
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Play On The Music
Play on the music
Drop by drop
The strings divine
The nature at its eloquence
From heavens to earth
Stretch the string
Play on the music
Drop by drop
Beethoven’s symphony
Chopin’s piano
Santana’s guitar
Or the cuckoos song
Play on the music
Drop by drop
In the heat of the night
In cold surroundings
The story of my love
My illusions great
I construct heavens
Play on the music
Drop by drop
For the moments rare
It’s only for those
The discerning here
The enchanted being
Play on the music
Drop by drop
Don’t leave me alone
O soul you fly
The body shivers
With the thought
Of death and destruction
O soul we were friends
Thou fly to eternity
Play on the music
Drop by drop
Your place is heaven
I want to be heard
A slave to a master
So ungrateful
Your beauty in this world
I hath been
You decorated me
With ornaments rare
Play on the music
Drop by drop
For this is your fate
O carrier of soul
The life’s going by
Take your share
O body of the soul
Freedom anew
In the world here
Play on the music
Drop by drop
For I am the real
The being and the nothing
The beloved and the rival
The saki and the wine
Play on the music
Drop by drop
In the deep longing
Of the night long
The strings so stretched
From the heavens to earth
Sing songs of love, O beloved mine
Reveal thy face, in my imaginations wild
Torn is my being, between real and unreal
Play on the music
Drop by drop
In the middle of the night
The rain drops falling
From the clouds high
Is telling me this story
Khayyam’s disciple
Sings a song
Play on the music
Drop by drop
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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The Guitarist
Strum the strings
From room to room
The sound will ring
Sealed in its case
Taking up space
I use a pick to play
The guitar, everyday
Playing a chord
Only when I'm bored
Strum the strings
From room to room
The sound will ring
Its base is wood
Its strings are not
When you cannot play
There is nothing to flaunt
Before you play
Tune the sound
Strum on and on
Until a rhythm is found
Strum the strings
From room to room
The sound will ring
I
I have nothing to say
No light to use
No music to play
I'm idle
For I have
No guitar to play
poem by Pete Rivera
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My Guitar.
my guitar has six strings,
it gets lonely when nobody sings,
musical and magical,
my pick makes my guitar sound so magical,
and no matter were i go shes right there,
when i play my guitar people always stare,
we sound so good together,
i hope my guitar will stay with me forever,
my guitar has six strings.
but it gets lonely when no one sings,
my guitar is never out of tune,
it doesnt matter who i play it too,
wether you're happy, mad or feeling blue,
just remember my guitar will help you get thru.
1/11/2009
Copyright ©2009 Jose Murguia
poem by Jose Murguia
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The Fate of a Musician
Every day I pick up my guitar and just play
I write my own songs with the help of friends
We design music and lyrics we start new trends
Acoustic guitar, electric guitar or 12 strings
These instruments have played my songs and I have grown wings
Soaring and flying watching my creations grow
As the music expands the lyrics just flow
The more I create the more passionate I become
The more I play the more fun we have
Music gives me something to do
Each song I write I will be sure to see through
When I am up on stage standing in the spotlight
I spread my wings, start playing, and take flight!
When the crowd cheers you get a feeling of inspiration
After the gig you’re sitting home alone
You pull out your guitar stick in the headphones
You start strumming, creating your own beat
You sit there all night tapping your feet
The history of music and the sound you create
Brings friends closer together I reckon its more then fate.
Benjamin A. Green
poem by Benjamin Andrew
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My Sad Guitar (In Iraq)
When I play...my sad guitar,
With powered chords...of deep emotion.
I strum the strings...with such devotion,
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
When I play...my sad guitar,
In a bunker, built in the sand.
This war torn country, this desert land,
I miss playing...In a rock and roll band.
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
When I play...my sad guitar,
My memories play,
Deep in my mind,
I try to find-
Our... wedding... day!
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
When I play...my sad guitar,
I think of my Harley...My hot-rod car,
Wishing I was home,
With a beer in a bar.
When I play...my...sad...guitar.
poem by Philip Lore
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String Between Cups
It was those strings between those cups
Carrying conversations no satellite could pick up
It was that easy laid-back living'
Undisturbed by the bad news on the television
It was those simple words of love, passed through the strings between us
Undisturbed by society's lust for a pleasure that seems to be all touch
Yes, it's those undisturbed words
We had both previously heard
Before… But once more…
We knew we had never really felt
But what we had was enough, there was no need to bluff
We both played well with the cards we were dealt
Those strings between those cups
Reverberated from the talks between us
The ones that I like to recall most
And we never had fancy things or long strings
So we always stayed close
For undisturbed conversation, About the steps we had taken
And it was those undisturbed words
We had both previously heard
But we never really felt were real
Because touch was a word associated with feel
Until true passion had made us whole
Now feel is a word associated with soul
Some things aren't always as they seem to be
And we never had any magazines to see
How we should make love or how we should dress
That's advice on this life that never left us impressed
And those strings between those cups carried conversation best
Carrying in them all the words we had once heard before
But between us those words seemed to mean so much more
poem by Johnathan Stokes
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Les Paul (In Memorial) 1915-2009
This looks like just another ho-hum year but wait,
6/9/15 has produced a talent, unparalleled & great,
How come? Many births this month and year so far,
Delivered today was the father of the electric guitar.
Big band, jazz, rhythm & blues, classical, rock & roll,
6 strings was never before blessed with so much soul,
Oh yeah, with music so unique and full of life that’s all,
Simply a sound unlike any other thanks Mr. Les Paul.
A guitar is the heartbeat, oh yeah, leader of the band,
Rhythm, orchestra, gently cradled by woman or man,
Showcased in front, Hendrix, Clapton, Vaughn, King,
Ellis in the background, Rait and others make it sing.
Benson, Montgomery, where to begin, where to stop?
Cray, Perry, Prince, Slash & Van Halen, made it pop,
All the way to 94 even Les himself could carry a tune,
His passing only means showtime is now on the moon.
Hey! Trillions of stars will sway to the masterful beat,
While planets rotate in harmony and stomp their feet,
There are two Creators in heaven, The Original & Les,
Angels are happy they’ll be getting lessons from the best.
A legacy to be left wherever music is played then heard,
Many have even taken the task, skillfully adding words,
Radio, mp3, ipod, record player, studio, stereo in the car,
Can’t imagine how any would sound w/o an electric guitar.
poem by Luke Easter
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Strumming The Strings Of My Heart
I watch you play,
Making a beautiful tune
The strings of the guitar shaking
As you sit in the light of the moon
Your plucking the strings
With great ease
Making a flowing melody
A pretty song, just for me
I continue to watch
You playing your guitar
Making me love you
While your strumming the strings of my heart
These strings will never be touched
By anyone but you
You go where no one else can
Leaving a mark, like a tattoo,
Saying I LOVE YOU
poem by Katniss Everdeen
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Blue Guitar
I once knew a man
Showed me the slight of hand
In the blink of an eye, he danced across the strings
Played a song I'd never heard
Poignant and absurd
To this day it leaves me wondering
How I wish tomorrow I were fishin'
Boy I've got a mission
Shake it, rattle and roll
Ah, now, just use your intuition
You'll get less competition
From the clock up on the wall
You are what you are
You dream what you dream
Play on your Blue Guitar for me
Play me a serenade
A simple masquerade
Play on your Blue Guitar for me
'Cause we'll all make believe
Someone to deceive
Time is just a folly we can't see
You only know one song
Play it right or wrong
The truth is always somewhere in between
You and I, we can't change the weather
And we're all in this together
So let the strong winds blow
Ah, now things will be much better
If you don't become a prisoner
To the reason you should know
You are what you are
You dream what you dream
Play on your Blue Guitar for me
Play me a serenade
A simple masquerade
Play on your Blue Guitar for me
How I wish tomorrow I were fishin'
Boy I've got a mission
Shake it, rattle and roll
Ah, now, just use you intuition
You'll get less competition
From the clock up on the wall
You are what you are
You dream what you dream
Play on your Blue Guitar for me
Play me a serenade
A simple masquerade
Play on your Blue Guitar for me
You are what you are
You dream what you dream
Play on your Blue Guitar for me
Play me a serenade
Red wine or lemonade
Play on your Bl
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mateo
Mateo sat on a rusty bench
outside his local bar
and polished his old guitar
with a crumpled up tissue
he’d pulled from the pocket
of his faded jeans
while Sophie watched
through the balcony rails
as he breathed
his whisky haws
onto the scratched wood
shining it
until his reflection
shook them by the throat
and his fingers
started to pluck and weave
their life through the strings
The music played off key
but his arthritic hands
were too tired and sore
to tune the old guitar
like her
he felt a comfort
in the imperfection
of the sounds
and the grainy melody
that filled the spaces
in the day’s drizzle
Mateo didn’t see her
but she knew he felt her
in his pulse
and he played her
in his strings
and she tried to run from clichés
but she couldn’t
her heart bled
poem by Sheila Knowles
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The Guitar Player
He is just a child, a guitar player
and he hits the strings of his brown guitar quickly
in a lonely kind of song,
as if he is going into the world with it.
He plays for whoever is passing, for the night
where the birds and crickets are suddenly silent
when he picks at strings with a deep sweet kind of hurt
and his hurting music cuts through all things.
Sometimes he feels the cold, the winter wind
that wants to bring him back to reality
and he is being devoured by life
where the stars shine high above him
and he searches through pockets for a marijuana cigarette,
as the last pleasure that is left to him.
[Reference: Die speelman (The playing-man) by N.P. van Wyk Louw.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Lover's Melody or And from the Oboe Came a Pretty Sound
And from the oboe came a pretty sound
The crescendo called love
From the bell that was his lover's heart
More beautiful than anything
Vivaldi could compose
True, she was an oboe
Alone, in an orchestra of drums, saxophones, and pianos
But she met a guitar
A beautifully carved acoustic instrument
That made a sound like no other
She'd ever heard
Together they made sweet, sweet music
The love-struck oboe wanted to stay
With the guitar, cut a deal, and
Make some records
But, alas, the guitar
Was completely unaware
Of the melody the oboe was playing
From the oboe came a pretty sound
And the guitar, he sung back
Of the returned love
The oboe was looking for,
It was a tune of lament—sad and slow
For he knew he could not give her
What she desired
So he set himself on fire
And from the guitar came a descend
When the oboe found her lover she
picked up what was left of he
and put it in a box of oak
and sailed it off to sea
the oboe knew no sad songs
but she wanted to sing him a tune
so on the beautiful sunset on June
she hummed him what she knew…
…and from the oboe came a pretty sound
poem by Alecia Carroll
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My Beloved Guitar
The long solid neck,
With flowing, refinded strings.
A base of cherry; finished wood.
Defined in figure, exquisite;
Among other things.
Shaped with a curve,
Set down in my lap.
I picked up my guitar,
And made my fingers tap.
A symphony from,
Those melodic strings.
Part of my hearts amour.
My fingers graze along,
This coppery and bronze decor.
A roughness they slide.
Along the ends;
Roughness on my fingertips.
A sliding; an arry of refreshing sounds.
One that echos into the bottem,
And emerges to astound.
My arm embraces the frame work,
A base of refined finished wood.
Tuned to a sound,
Like a guitar should.
My fingers cradle those melodic stings.
The light strum of my hand,
Makes music;
The guitar sings.
From the mouth of a speaker.
Out comes a tune.
With a cadence strum.
Fingers pressed down,
Out the music comes.
A symphony from,
This rhythmic harmony.
A tone in my soul.
A note that's always been apart of me.
A feeling I once knew.
I recall, a sound in the distance.
A beauty that plays so smooth.
Shaped with a curve,
Set down in my lap;
I picked up my guitar.
It slowly starts to come back.
That feeling, I'll never forget.
I recall, a sound not so far.
I recall, the feeling that day;
The day I picked up my beloved guitar.
poem by Jessie Jett
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All gut strings. That's just the first kind of guitar I played, it was a nylon string guitar. And to me, it's the purest form of guitar making, and I just enjoy doing it.
Play For Me My Beloved Guitar
Play for me my beloved guitar
A Love Song for my Dearest whose heart is filled with hurt;
With your strings of gold
Pluck out all her troubles from old
Play for me my beloved guitar
A Ballad for my Son whose life is full of uncertainties;
With your tunes so mellow
To a straight path let him follow
Play for me my beloved guitar
A Lullaby for my Daughter whose life is full of struggles;
With your sound so sweet
Into life's hurdles let her succeed
Play for me my beloved guitar
A Sonnet for my Brothers whose lives seem to be so hard;
With your timbre so soft
Into difficulties let them keep up
Play for me my beloved guitar
A Gospel for the World full of hatred and war;
With your resonance so pleasant
Chaos and crimes be gone
Play for me my beloved guitar
An Ode for My Soul full of burdens of the above;
With your lovely tunes and my dexterous fingers
Healing, inspiring, uplifting, motivating and peaceful songs, we will play together.
10/16/10(17: 27) -GYO Iraq
Away From My Moody Attitudes
The strumming of strings,
Heard on...
Your guitar,
Expands my mind with your melodies...
No matter if I'm moody.
Or...
Hard to please.
The strumming of strings,
Heard on...
Your guitar,
Expands my mind with your melodies...
No matter if I'm moody.
Or...
Hard to please.
To witness the dew with mist lifting,
In the early morning dawn...
Comes to deliver a fresh acceptance,
With...
A feeling I can't miss,
To let drift away or go on with a need in me...
Internally I ssek to feed as if feasting.
The strumming of strings heard on your guitar,
Delivers a fresh acceptance with...
A feeling I just can't let,
Escape away.
I am not promised a repeating of these unique days.
The strumming of strings heard on your guitar,
Delivers a fresh acceptance with...
A feeling I just can't let,
Escape away.
Only you can move me,
In the way you do...
Away from my moody attitudes.
Only you can move me,
Away from my moody attitudes.
Only you can move me,
In the way you do...
Away from my moody attitudes.
Only you can move me,
In the way you do.
To give me what's overdue.
Only you can move me,
In the way you do.
To give me what's overdue.
Away from my moody attitudes.
And...
Only you can move me,
To give me what's overdue.
Away from my moody attitudes.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Song of the waterfalls
As I hold this guitar of mine
while looking up the waterfalls,
I noticed
that the splashing water to the lichened stones
were attuned to the melodic lore
like I never heard before.
As the air moved slowly
and as the tune grew gradually,
my keen ear noticed something
which in effect fascinating.
The water jumped like notes
filled with gladness.
Slowly, gently and eagerly
my fingers pluck the strings
of my guitar and followed the tunes.
Those were melodies of love,
those were sent by the heaven above,
to conquer your heart
for a brand new start.
poem by Winston Soldevilla
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