You're right, David - another guitar poet. I dl his "Forward" album and Tommy Emmanuel's "Endless Road".

I've found precious few poems that can match in words what these guys do with music. I suppose that's a quality of music itself - something in the brain, in perception, makes its beauty far more accessible than that of words, even when words arrive as sound. I think maybe music's link to the mind is much more direct than language's, which maybe has to go through some kind of translation/interpretation app. So to speak.

Many, many thanks.

Death Fugue
by Paul Celan

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening
we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Marguerite
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling
he whistles his hounds to come close
he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground
he orders us strike up and play for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at morning and midday we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margeurite
your ashen hair Shulamith we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped
He shouts jab this earth deeper you lot there you others sing up and play
he grabs for the rod in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue
jab your spades deeper you lot there you others play on for the dancing

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at midday and morning we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margeurite
your aschenes Haar Shulamith he plays with his vipers
He shouts play death more sweetly Death is a master from Deutschland
he shouts scrape your strings darker you'll rise then in smoke to the sky
you'll have a grave then in the clouds there you won't lie too cramped

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland
we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink
this Death is ein Meister aus Deutschland his eye it is blue
he shoots you with shot made of lead shoots you level and true
a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margarete
he looses his hounds on us grants us a grave in the air
he plays with his vipers and daydreams
der Tod is ein Meister aus Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Shulamith


(Translated by John Felstiner)

Dave - Poetry is song without music. I know why and so do you
is an old classic - as is
Turn the Page

On a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha
You can listen to the engine moanin' out it's one note song
You can think about the woman, or the girl you knew the night before
But your thoughts will soon be wandering, the way they always do
When you're riding sixteen hours and there's nothing there to do
And you don't feel much like riding, you just wish the trip was through

Here I am, on the road again
There I am, on the stage
Here I go, playing star again
There I go, turn the page

Well you walk into a restaurant all strung out from the road
And you feel the eyes upon you as you're shaking off the cold
You pretend it doesn't bother you, but you just want to explode

Most times you can't hear 'em talk, other times you can
All the same old cliche's, is it woman is it man?
You always seem outnumbered, so you don't dare make a stand

Here I am, on the road again
There I am, on the stage
Here I go, playing star again
There I go, turn the page

Out there in the spotlight you're a million miles away
Every ounce of energy, you try to give away
As the sweat pours out your body like the music that you play

Later in the evening as you lie awake in bed
With the echoes from the amplifiers ringin' in your head
You smoke the days last cigarette, remembering what she said

Here I am, on the road again
There I am, up on the stage
Here I go, playing star again
There I go, turn the page

ONLY THE BIRDS
ARE ABLE
TO THROW OFF
THEIR SHADOWS

William - Your last two selections were descriptive and depressing
albeit needing to be presented. Delving into history with powerful
words, rythmic beats, truth and passion are what make these
authors brilliant masters and produce such profound works.
Thank you for bringing them to our consciousness as well as the
clarity of your expression...We are being warned but what
will it take to heed?....."this cannot continue indefinitely"

Depressing? I'll give you depressing! The hazards of post-modern academese.

“Oh freddled gruntbuggly…” he began. Spasms wracked Ford’s body – this was worse than even he’d been prepared for.
“?…thy micturations are to me/As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee.”
“Aaaaaaarggggghhhhh!” went Ford Prefect, wrenching his head back as lumps of pain thumped through it…
“Groop I implore thee,” continued the merciless Vogon, “my foonting turlingdromes.”
His voice was rising to a horrible pitch of impassioned stridency. “And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,/ Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don’t!”
…“Now, Earthlings…” whirred the Vogon…, “I present you with a simple choice! Either die in the vacuum of space, or…” he paused for melodramatic effect, “tell me how good you thought my poem was!”
…Ford was rasping for breath. He rolled his dusty tongue round his parched mouth and moaned.
Arthur said brightly, “Actually, I quite liked it…I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective.”
…”Yes, do continue…” invited the Vogon.
“Oh…and, er…interesting rhythmic devices too,” continued Arthur, “which seemed to compound the…er…er…” he floundered.
Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding “counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the…er…” He floundered too, but Arthur was ready again.
“…humanity of the…”
“Vogonity,” Ford hissed at him.
“Ah yes, Vogonity – sorry – of the poet’s compassionate soul” – Arthur felt he was on a homestretch now – “which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other” – he was reaching a triumphant crescendo – “and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into…into…er” (which suddenly gave out on him). Ford leaped in with the coup de grace.
“Into whatever the poem was about!” he yelled.
[When the Vogon asks if they mean he writes poetry because he really just wants to be loved, they quickly agree. Wrong! He orders them thrown out into space, which upsets Ford because he still has a headache and doesn’t want to go to heaven with a headache. But as they’re being taken to the airlock, the Vogon has second thoughts.]
“Hmmm,” he said, “counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor…” He considered this for a moment, and then closed the book with a grim smile.
“Death’s too good for them,” he said.


"...counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor…"? Really, it's hard to disagree with the Vogon (Douglas Adams's alter-ego).

The beautiful Planet coated in a foggy fall of fantastic freezing fine frosty floating frigid faceted flakes


anybody care to follow