We were touched and impressed by the lovely poems submitted by those of you who responded to our invitation to write original works for our first-ever poetry contest to commemorate our literature-inspired Summer Series narratives. Thank you for your beautiful words. Here are some of our favorites:
Brazilian Rosewood
I am in love with the tallest man in Brazil.
He has long, slender fingers which strum
my heart and warm hands which touch my breasts.
When he plays—it is a sound which sustains.
The tallest man in Brazil was made in Japan.
An American born on a snowy night with G.I.’s shouting obscenities
and his father studying the bombs effects on Hiroshima’s population.
It is a mystery what we do, how wood effects sound,
how the wood on a guitar is endangered and luscious,
exotic and rare.
When the music stops, I am in love in an abiding silence.
I wait patiently for words as a quiet relentlessness penetrates
his unusual ability to attract. Dark chocolate brown, gold black brown,
oxblood, I have learned to sit still.
I do not understand the genetics of height, strict restrictions of trees,
magnets that attract iron by virtue of a surrounding field of force,
the alignments of atoms.
The angels have positioned our alliance.
The mystic is the spirit that is the soul of this matter.
Brazil is a faraway land I have never
been to. I take the subway to see him. His guitar is on
his bed. I have met taller men but the words now come.
I am in the middle of the story; to go to the beginning will mean to start again.
-Ysella Ayn Fulton
Poem For 6th Period
The smooth communal mind meld.
Eyes staring at other eyes from behind sheet music stands.
Feelings of bliss as notes crawl along your classical skin…
vibrant, like the surface of a drum.
Tones hum. Strings strum. Noise become Harmony.
Melting into the sounds, souls surround you.
Toes tapping. Fingers snapping.
All of us…..waiting….for our moment of brilliance.
That’s what my section does the best….”Rest”.
We, Heavy Brass, and Low woodwinds offer
The background hum and unifying rhythm
To support the soaring flutes, busy clarinets,
Blazing guitars, blaring trumpets, and
Charging french horns…
(You know they always get the solos.)
Whenever the composer wants to glissade
Through beautiful meadows and forests,
Or represent a peaceful rippling brook, we,
The thundering horde of wildebeests, rhinos,
And elephants, have to wait out the delicate
Little creatures who create the whimsical Dance
Of the Fairies. Those waits are called:
Rest Bars.
1 2 3 4. 2 2 3 4. 3 2 3 4.
As a Baritone Saxophone, I’ve counted out 50 rest bars.
The problem is….humans get distracted after 4 2 3 4.
Life starts creeping in from the wings.
“When is my term paper due?”
“Hey, I need to buy a new reed tomorrow.”
9 2 3 4.
“Hey Donna”, first chair tenor sax, “Are y’all going out
after the concert tomorrow?”
12- 2 3 4.
“I know.” “I can’t believe they haven’t made him
get a haircut yet….He does look cool on his guitar.”
“What bar are we on?” “Ask Tommy, Mister Trombone.”
“What? Are you sure it’s 22-2 3 4? Seems later into it.”
Tell David to signal the Tubas.”
18-2 3 4?! “Heck No” “That’s sure not right!”
“Does this part sound like where we come in?
“The guitar hasn’t had his solo yet.”
“This seems close….How ’bout 40-2 3 4?”
“Wait a minute…Eileen on the Clarinet is giving us
the finger…..
Leave it to the tone deaf kid to always know the
right bar count.”
-Liz Delaney
(Dedicated to Donna Beth Klaus 1959-2006; I never sat next to a better soul or sax player)
A Man’s Guitar Narrative Day
The morning dawns,
Maybe today.
My nylon string yawns,
“Will you play?”
The rush to the job,
After lunch is made.
Will time rob
My guitar to play?
Thinking about the sounds to come out,
No words, no struggle, no thought.
On the nylons I can shout,
No worry about getting caught.
Home…a kiss.
A silent wish.
My guitar I miss,
Time is a swish.
Alone on a stand,
Waiting for me.
This one man band,
Wants to play a melody.
The night is here,
I’m wide awake.
My time is now,
Soft notes my fingers make.
So smooth…so pretty,
Slumber comes fast.
But its only 1030,
A little longer…will I last?
Then I awake,
In the middle of the night.
My guitar I take,
And put out of sight.
-Rudy Martisek
Haiku reflection on first classical guitar experience at Carmel Classical Guitar Festival as a child in the 70s
Cool Carmel evening
Guitar pieces fill the air
Warmly doze secure
-SMB
Untitled
A seed blown by the wind
Planted by the wind
A sapling nourished by the lullaby of the wind
The tree listens and remembers
Year after year the crown skyward reaches
Century after century the wind teaches
Song verses of fire and flood
Crescendos from gentle breeze to raucous gale
Rhythms swaying, an accelerando to the
Finale of felling hurricane
The tree listens and remembers
A craftsman’s saw and plane shape and thin to
Test tree tone and timbre
Reading the tree rings and grain
until the tree is a sculpture ready to sing.
A musician’s fingers pluck the strings that vibrate and amplify the ancient resonance of the wood
Harmonizing his soul’s composition with
The tree’s song of the wind
-Lloyd Pond
ORLANDO OUR ORLANDO
Orlando not Bloom
Not Bard driven
Not a last resort
A new sacred place
Where love will out hate
Life will out death
Death remembered
Life dismembered
Beginning middle end
Beginning middle end
Persona process nocturne
Staccato framed falling silhouettes
Breath pulse
Hold breath pulse
Hate crime memorial filling the Washington Mall
Etched in power life chord beats
Parchment rubbings spark star bursts
Stones unturned
Breathe hold breath pulse
Breathe hold breath pulse
Breathe hold breath pulse
Orlando not Bloom
A new sacred place.
-Daniel Capouch
Touch My Soul
Strum thy string and let it ring
O seventh chords so crisp and clean
This day and age so full of worries
Full of rush and full of hurry
Touch my being this wooden box
So full of joy and natural healing
Thy strings vibrate and down they go
So deep, So deep, to touch my soul
-Andrew Martinez
Call and Response
Amen to the sun on my face
Unfiltered through curtains or lace-
Sunglasses, clouds or disgrace.
Head tilted back, I begin to relax
Knowing my throat will be safe.
Warming up to my God given place
Within this sole human race,
Say Amen! To the sun on my face.
-Kathleen Burke
Untitled
I see Miss Havisham
In Dicken’s Great Expectations
Sitting and wandering
Through the rotting remains
Of her dreams
And she stays there
With those expectations
Becoming nothing but dust
And food for rats
Amusing herself by playing
With Pip and giving him
False hope that will
Blind him to his actual life
It makes me think
Of Lot’s wife
Turned into a pillar
Of salt as she looks back
On a life ripped from her
Nothing left but tears
Which she becomes
Blind to the future
Unable to let the past
Slip through her fingers
And disappear
Pain is like that
Giving me the opportunity
To drown in disability
Or to be present now
Not longing for the past
But always looking at today
Allowing the past to fade
Into memory
-Marilyn Zwicker
A Tribute
From near or far
All people know the strum
Of the guitar.
Sounds of classical or flamenco
Country, rock, or folk
To the heart they flow.
As melodies are played
Memories can return
And now they’ll never fade.
Emotions stirred by every chord
Which build with every rhythm
Bring peace without a word.
And so it is that ACG
Succeeds in it’s pure mission
To bring this world to me!
-Virginia Urban
Pause No. 2
Listening brings joy and peace
in quietness
Hauntingly lovely chords
from a classical guitar
Soothe the soul – with calming – rhythmic balm
Hearts are full – and can see – hear – remember
things forgotten – treasured – longed for
Now grateful – offer tribute – clapping hands
In honor of this gifted artist – and the magical sounds
A classical guitar – proudly – the best ever – one man band
-Patti Renaldo