Guitarra Portuguesa
in the cafe
Carlos Paredes held the Portuguese
guitar – walnut wood – the body
of Lisbon – with twelve strings
his fingers emulated rain
across the room a woman began
dancing –
the fingerpicking and figueto
described her movements –
the underwater sway
of sea grass –
I was submerged
her figure haunted every glass
of water or wine
her shadow drifted through the welter
of candlelight
on the adobe walls
after the final chord
floated across the room
and Carlos Peredes put his guitar down
I breathed in deeply
the steam of baked salmon
buttery spinach and garlic bread –
the music had entered everything
I placed a grape between my teeth
tasted the dark surge of juices
when I realized I could no longer see
the dancer
I wondered if she had disappeared
inside of me
poem by Michael Spring
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Related quotes
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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Ungramatically, right..!
I have a guitar
It asks me questions...
Replies my doubts...
At times generate novel music...
Without me playing, very noble.!
Many a times I thought
To enter the inner of that...!
As I entered it....
To know its wonders...,
Wonders of its everything...
Kid I became...
For my guitar..! ,
Because of entering its inner beauty..
I was cared as inside of my mom!
And became sacred too...!
Because I dont know anything...
Other than my presence in its kling..!
I am not fully fit to describe about the guitar....
Guitar...my mom...!
Because its my world...my universe..!
To the people it may seem as I am creating music
From the inside and outside by tricks..!
But ultimately....
The guitar only has created me...!
I am the guitar's kid! !
There Are a Lot of People in the World Called Jack
There’s an old man singing
Out on his front porch
Strumming his guitar
Like it’s 1954.
It may have been a while
But he remembers every chord
And although it doesn’t look like much
It’s all he could afford.
Yes, the paint is peeling
And the strings are wearing thin
And it’s still sporting the logo
Of the band he once was in
But every cent he ever earned
Bought him that guitar
He should have known that green ambition
Never gets you far.
His fingers pace the tired strings.
Performing through the days
Mister-Money-Buys-You-Talent
So-I’m-Al ways-Going-To-Pay.
Stupid to the audience
Who stand around and stare
He closes his eyes and flutters back
Forgets his silver hair.
When he carried solos
With the music in his arms
Failure was not a choice
Nothing could do him harm.
As the final bar echoes
A chord dies in his hands
He falls down hard onto his porch,
And ceases the painful sound.
His weary face stares from his hands
The audience just smile,
Walk from the man and his guitar
Always in denial.
poem by Victoria Annette Bailey
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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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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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Simplicity Of The Music Of The Spirit
attuned
i pluck the strings of guitar
and music
is soothing as usual
my spirit soars
leaving a painful body behind
now it is
the song that plucks the guitar
strings.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Shadow And The Heavy Rains...
a heavy rain
a dark night
inside the comfort
of a room with
walls of wood
a shadow sings
silence
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Fastest Guitar Alive
Orbison/dees
Hey here I go a lucky so and so
Happy cos I know Ive got my fast guitar
Singing pretty songs, knowing I belong
I am first and last, and always a fast guitar
The fastest guitar alive
Rattling strings like a gattling gun
Shaped like a lovely woman
Stay right where you are
My guitar is a fast guitar
The fastest guitar alive
Im rolling on like a rolling stone
Gathering no moss, I play a boss guitar
The fastest guitar alive
Strumming like a battling soldiers drum
Shaped like a lovely woman
Stay right where you are
My guitar is a fast guitar
The fastest guitar alive
Hey here I go a lucky so and so
Happy cos I know Ive got my fast guitar
The fastest guitar
The fastest guitar
The fastest guitar alive
song performed by by Roy Orbison
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 Man
They call me the guitar man.
Cause I can really bend those strings.
I no longer play in a band,
But I can make my guitar sing.
There ain't nothing I can't play,
I carry music in my soul.
I play better than yesterday,
I can play some solid gold.
My acoustic Alvarez,
Can either sing or cry.
I thank the Lord, that he has blessed,
My guitar and me from on high.
If you're ever down in Texas,
Come and see this guitar man.
I don't look at all like Elvis,
But I do the best I can.
Ask around and you will see.
That I am not so hard to find.
If you hear music, thats where I'll be,
So come on down, if your'e inclined.
9/5/10 Alton Texas
poem by Juan Olivarez
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My Guitar And A Penutbutter Jar
I sit and play my guitar all day
as my fingers lay on the strings so tight
strumming it lightly
make sounds of pain
my fingers are bleeding but i dont care
the pain i feel inside is much stronger
why am i still alive?
can i take this any longer?
his voice tells me to keep playing on
my hearts want to die after my last song
i reach for the jar of penutbutter
they say there is happyness at the bottom
but they lie
the only thing i have left
is my guitar and an empty penutbutter jar
scrapping at the bottom as it keeps me busy
my hearts are screaming PICK UP THE BLADE! !
dont put it down because its the only happeness you will ever know
its hard to stop some times i give in and do it
the blood flowing from my wrist to my guitar
my tears mixing in
so maybe there is hapyness in
my self mutilation, my guitar
and at the end of an empty penutbutter jar
poem by Sandy Vanity
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Eternal Circle
I sang the song slowly
As she stood in the shadows
She stepped to the light
As my silver strings spun
She called with her eyes
To the tune is a-playin
But the song it was long
And Id only begun
Through a bullet of light
Her face was reflectin
The fast fading words
That rolled from my tongue
With a long-distance look
Her eyes was on fire
But the song it was long
And there was more to be sung.
My eyes danced a circle
Across her clear outline
With her head tilted sideways
She called me again
As the tune drifted out
She breathed hard through the echo
But the song it was long
And it was far to the end
I glanced at my guitar
And played it pretendin
That of all the eyes out there
I could see none
As her thoughts pounded hard
Like the pierce of an arrow
But the song it was long
And it had to get done
As the tune finally folded
I laid down the guitar
Then looked for the girl
Whod stayed for so long
But her shadow was missin
For all of my searchin
So I picked up my guitar
And began the next song
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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This Ol' Guitar
This ol' guitar
has been my best friend
through thick and thin
It has held all my thoughts
spoken them through melody
words whispered from my heart
And at times
this ol' guitar
has even held tears at bay
Stopped my world from falling apart
it even has kept
this ol' heart from breaking in two
Yes, this ol' guitar
has served these aging hands
of mine so well
This ol' guitar
it has created music
that screamed out to be heard
This ol' guitar
has been my best friend
through thick and thin....
poem by Daniel Wittfoth
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This Guitar
He keeps his sercrets
Under his shirt sleeve
And hides his face
In his black hair
It hangs in his eyes
And all the girls think he's so cute
Why can't they see it?
Sometimes
He hides behind the school
And plays his guitar
It's so beautiful;
The rhythm he plays
No one notices what he does when he goes home
Because his mom's always drunk
And his dad's abusing her
And the boy tries to step in
To stop his mother from getting hit anymore
But it doesn't work
His father hits him instead
And he goes to his room
And cuts with his knife
Under his shirt sleeve
So no one sees it
And he hides in his room
And plays his guitar
This guitar
He says
Is keeping me alive
If I didn't have this guitar
I would've killed myslef already
Him
And his guitar
poem by Alyssa Ray
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Eep Opp Ork Ah-ah
Transcribed by bryson meunier
Chords used:
Gm7 d7 e7
E---10-----10-----12------|
B---11-----10-----12------|
G---10-----11-----13------|
D---12-----10-----12------|
A---10-----12-----14------|
E----------10-----12------|
Strum the gm7 chord for the intro.
Gm7 / d7 e7
Eep opp ork ah-ah
Chord progression for chorus: d7-gm7-e7-d7-gm7
It sounds like a bass with fuzz during the verse. the equivalent on
Guitar is bb5 with a fuzz box.
Gm7(with chorus or something)
Come fly with me...
Guitar solo 1-
E----------------------------------------------------|
B-------------------------------------------10-10-x--|
G------7b-r-b-r--------------7b-r-7-----7-7----------|
D--7h9----------9-9-7-9--7-9--------9-9--------------|
A----------------------------------------------------|
E----------------------------------------------------|
E-----------------------------10h12--12--10---12p10--|
B-10-10---10-12-12-12-10-12------10--10--10------10--|
G----------------------------------------------------|
D----------------------------------------------------|
A----------------------------------------------------|
E----------------------------------------------------|
E-12--10---12-10-12-10-12-10-12\14-------------------|
B-10--10---10-10-10-10-10-10-10----------------------|
G----------------------------------------------------|
D----------------------------------------------------|
A----------------------------------------------------|
E----------------------------------------------------|
Fuzz bass solo(guitar plays chorus chord progression)
Guitar solo 2-
E--9--6---6---------6---9--6---6----------------6----|
B-----------9--6--9---------------9----6--6--6-----9-|
G-----------------------------------8----------------|
D----------------------------------------------------|
A----------------------------------------------------|
E----------------------------------------------------|
E----------------------------------------------------|
B-6--------------6-----------------------------------|
G----8--6---6--8----8--6-----------------------------|
D---------8---------------8--6-----------------------|
A-------------------------------8--6-----------------|
E-------------------------------------6--------------|
The same chords are played at the end but the tempo obviously changes. at
The very end the guitar is slowly moving up the neck and ending by speed
Picking around the 22nd fret on e.
song performed by by Violent Femmes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Eep Opp Ork Ah-ah (Means I Love You)
Transcribed by bryson meunier
Chords used:
Gm7 d7 e7
E---10-----10-----12------|
B---11-----10-----12------|
G---10-----11-----13------|
D---12-----10-----12------|
A---10-----12-----14------|
E----------10-----12------|
Strum the gm7 chord for the intro.
Gm7/d7 e7
Eep opporkah-ah
Chord progression for chorus: d7-gm7-e7-d7-gm7
It sounds like a bass with fuzz during the verse. the equivalent on
Guitar is bb5 with a fuzz box.
Gm7(with chorus or something)
Come fly with me...
Guitar solo 1-
E----------------------------------------------------|
B-------------------------------------------10-10-x--|
G------7b-r-b-r--------------7b-r-7-----7-7----------|
D--7h9----------9-9-7-9--7-9--------9-9--------------|
A----------------------------------------------------|
E----------------------------------------------------|
E-----------------------------10h12--12--10---12p10--|
B-10-10---10-12-12-12-10-12------10--10--10------10--|
G----------------------------------------------------|
D----------------------------------------------------|
A----------------------------------------------------|
E----------------------------------------------------|
E-12--10---12-10-12-10-12-10-1214-------------------|
B-10--10---10-10-10-10-10-10-10----------------------|
G----------------------------------------------------|
D----------------------------------------------------|
A----------------------------------------------------|
E----------------------------------------------------|
Fuzz bass solo(guitar plays chorus chord progression)
Guitar solo 2-
E--9--6---6---------6---9--6---6----------------6----|
B-----------9--6--9---------------9----6--6--6-----9-|
G-----------------------------------8----------------|
D----------------------------------------------------|
A----------------------------------------------------|
E----------------------------------------------------|
E----------------------------------------------------|
B-6--------------6-----------------------------------|
G----8--6---6--8----8--6-----------------------------|
D---------8---------------8--6-----------------------|
A-------------------------------8--6-----------------|
E-------------------------------------6--------------|
The same chords are played at the end but the tempo obviously changes. at
The very end the guitar is slowly moving up the neck and ending by speed
Picking around the 22nd fret on e.
song performed by by Violent Femmes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Old Dusty Guitar
I walked into a shop one day,
in a dusty corner stood an old guitar.
Dust was playing its only refrain now;
no one took much notice
of it standing there
with several broken strings
looking worn and forlorn.
As I stood and looked at it, I
wondered what stories it could tell.
Were you played by someone famous,
and how many footlights did it see? On the other hand,
were you just strummed by someone
dreaming of stardom out of reach?
How far did this dreamer get, oh, old dusty guitar.
How much I would love to hear your story,
but I have to leave much to my regret,
but if your still hear tomorrow,
and I have enough money.
You will no longer be
an old dusty guitar,
for you will belong to me.
poem by David Harris
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6th Nonsense
The room is dark, I die.
Like painting the wind, it's impossible.
If oranges were gray we might call them 'Grays'
That would be groovy.
The room is dark, I die.
The room is dark, I die.
If there's rain in Spain would it make it to Maine?
I don't think so.
Everything's Zen?
I don't think so.
The room is dark I die.
The room is dark, I die.
I want to drift through lavender fields like honey on a cotton ball.
Dig it.
But the high-talking motorcross bandits won't let me.
The sorrow.
The room is dark, I die.
The room is dark, I die.
But if I were in Punjab I never would have seen the quartet.
If only quartets had 7 people.
That's alright because bunsen burners don't cost much.
The room is dark, I die.
The room is dark, I die.
That's my favorite Bible verse.
I think it's in Lushiticus, or Nueteronomy.
The hail storms don't mean anything when you're a unicorn anyway.
The room is dark, I die.
poem by Sledge Hammer
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