|All Poems here were written by me and belong to
me! No stealing. Trust me on this, it is NOT easier to beg forgiveness
from me than to ask permission. Asking me before trying to use something
of mine will generally yield happy good responses. `Forgetting` to ask
will bring all of my considerable negative attention onto your personage.
|(This is part of a group of poems. I'm only going
to show two of them here though. This poem is dedicated to the two
inspirations: Robert Keitling and Kirk Miller, cello
Flowing, weaving, and waving
Like spidersilk in the wind
Over thick strings, vibrating.
The sound of music
Flows out over the audience.
Sometimes slow, like honey,
Sometimes fast, in a waterfall.
Swift, soft, gentle movements,
Making the lifeless box
A living entity with but a caress.
Giving the instrument voice-
Voice to shout, cry, and sing.
Its soul pours out in unabashed clarity upon all.
Ah, but the watchful eye
Upon those talented fingers,
They can see slightly more.
The instrument is nothing separate,
Nothing different from the player.
Rather, it is part of the whole,
Letting the man pour out himself,
Where before he could not.
He lets his soul sing and cry,
With a swift, stern motion
Upon thick, smooth music strings.
A reflection upon the musician,
His hands never quite still,
Always thinking of something.
But always the most livid
When absorbed in his music.
Otherwise, he is normal
But known somehow, by his hands...
(This is the second of the Musician's poems that I
am putting here. This particular poem is dedicated to Shamus Conroy, a
fellow violinist, but much better than I could ever hope to be. He plays
at Bunratty Castle in Ireland. I wrote this up and mailed it to him the
day after I heard him [I try to send copies to those who inspire my
poetry]. He has asked me for permission to publish this piece with a CD of
Bunratty music that will be out soon. I said yes, (See, I am nice about
this sort of thing, if you ask me). I don't know if it is finished, yet.
If anyone sees it, let me know!
(This one came to me recently, and is a reflection, somewhat that I had
one night here in Japan. I have a strange muse. This is somewhat abstract.
Sometimes things are so similar between Japan and America that it gives a
person a really odd sense of, am I really somewhere else/What is real and
what is just imagined? After all, one urban area looks very oddly
like another, even though they might be a world away from one another.
Familiarity breeds contempt sort of thing. That doesn't come through in
the poem, but I didn't really mean to stress it, so that's okay. )
The wind whispers softly here, in careful dancing waves
I can see the sound of the mountains and hear the song of the sea
Bring to me, oh conjured mystery, a thing of memory,
A Love and Life so forgotten that `tisn`t even a missing thing
Wander silently through city streets and stare at the moon
Sing your own frail song to destiny's care
And call out your name to hear the answering voice.
Hear the song of ages and grace and fear and love.
Never once forget, as patiently needed as breath,
The dream you conjured there, still a child
And still with faith in hopes and dreams.
Myth is reality, and the soft whisper of faerie wing lulls you to sleep
See in the stars and rolling clouds the freedom of simply caring
Only a child fears just the wound, and not the making
Give me a flower, show me life full-flowing
And I'll give you the strength to dream
And the hope to keep it growing.
Life is not without pain, but the desperate growing makes us to forget...
There are things beyond our sense, hope beyond our knowing
Strength beyond our imagining and life immeasurable before us...
To grow and not forget the dream
To live and not let pain rule us
To hope, to dream, and to feel
Gives us, makes us the free hearts we are.
(Hearts in the last line can be replaced with souls. I've not decided which I like better. If you have an opinion, e-mail me.)
(on to page 2 of poems)
(back to Ginfukurou's main writing page)