Two Guitars Poem by Gloria Maxson
The Living
As if in that Pentecostal day,
Guitars were also filled with holy fire that gave the gift of tongues,
You also may speak in whatever language you desire.
Is it not strange that woods so various as yours have moods as various as mine;
That you can range from a gregarious flamenco shout
Or shrill electric whine that rocks the town,
And then in full eclipse,
Begin a kind of lullabying croon that, with the tenderest of fingertips,
Can rock the cradle of the Newborn moon.
So speak in all your tongues, for all are true, -
And all are loved – for all of them are you.
The Dead
How sad we sing no more in harmony – my old guitar;
But both in silence lie!
My fingers, stiffened with infirmity; no more evoke your strings to sweet reply;
And my infirmity becomes your own in that shared sympathy that lovers know –
My broken voice has cracked the very tone of yours;
That ranged so richly high and low,
And the untimely bending of my form has set a subtle warping to your frame,
As if you shared in every way the storm that came upon me, and that overcame.
So close were we in love, in joy, and art –
I tomb your silent body in my heart.
PS. I wrote this down more about 30 years ago and have been carrying it in my guitar case all that time; I still have the original copy which has yellowed with age, but this has been part of my life’s musical inspiration philosophy ever since. I am just now saving it on my computer, as I cannot find an original copy of this on the Internet, although I did find some other references to Gloria Maxson’s poetry.
About a year ago I forwarded a copy to Kevin Eubanks of the Tonight Show; said he really liked it.
Randy Smith
aka
RCSBlues
