Poem about guitar music?

[elemmennope.livejournal.com]

I have a neighbor who sometimes sits on his balcony at night playing acoustic guitar. I have been truly moved, laying in bed in the dark as I fall asleep, listening to the soft notes drift across the warm summer air into my window.

I want to sneak over and leave an anonymous note on his door saying thank you, and just letting him know that his practicing outside is bringing me, bringing someone, joy. I thought about including a short quote or poem about guitar music or night music or something... but I just can't find the right words.

So this is a request for a poem or a section from a poem about guitars or music or listening to music at night or summer evenings or something along those lines. I've been googling and searching poem databases for the last hour or so and am not finding anything appropriate. Any suggestions?

Comments

[peoplevsme.livejournal.com]

Wallace Stevens' "The Man With the Blue Guitar" (http://www.geegaw.com/stories/the_man_with_the_blue_guitar.shtml) came to mind. It's by no means short, but maybe a quote from it? It's awesome. And I definitely recommend it regardless :)

and this isn't a poem, but that amazing Picasso painting... (http://www.physics.miami.edu/~chris/art/picasso/old_plyr.jpg) I have a postcard of it.

your post made me happy.

[purple-malik.livejournal.com]

I don't have any poem to contribute but I sit at my window and play my acoustic. Even though i'm no expert i'm hoping if someone listens they appreciate it :D

It's so soothing to play it at night. And sometimes when the dawn is breaking, it's just amazing to play pretty and slow songs :)

[ravengirl.livejournal.com]

sweet. we have a pianist in our complex and usually the notes flowing in the windows is soothing and appreciated. just this morning i enjoyed his "practice" again. :)

a Carpenter's song came to mind as i read your post, but only a portion would be "appropriate". i like the idea of the picasso painting mentioned above-- it's a great work and widely available so a little note on such a "card" would be nice.

[cp.livejournal.com]

I've always liked this one...

The Guitarist Tunes Up

With what attentive courtesy he bent
Over his instrument;
Not as a lordly conquerer who could
Command both wire and wood,
But as a man with a loved woman might,
Inquiring with delight
What slight essential things she had to say
Before they started, he and she, to play.

-Frances Darwin Cornford

[twirlingdervish.livejournal.com]

Man, he´s your neighbour! Bake him a pie!

Sorry, that was obnoxious. We-all-have-our-ways-of-doing-things. The poem idea is very pretty. Still, though, a less anonymous appreciation would be a nice way of meeting someone.

[bloodrebel333.livejournal.com]

You made me want to take out my own guitar and go sit on the porch to practice.

[joseishijin.livejournal.com]

Sorry - I don't know if the breaks are correct, but how about Federico García Lorca?

The Guitar

The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.

[sophie-spence.livejournal.com]

Not a poem you can use, but your description of listening to your neighbor reminded me of "Music" by Amy Lowell:

The neighbour sits in his window and plays the flute.
From my bed I can hear him,
And the round notes flutter and tap about the room,
And hit against each other,
Blurring to unexpected chords.
It is very beautiful,
With the little flute-notes all about me,
In the darkness.

In the daytime,
The neighbour eats bread and onions with one hand
And copies music with the other.
He is fat and has a bald head,
So I do not look at him,
But run quickly past his window.
There is always the sky to look at,
Or the water in the well!

But when night comes and he plays his flute,
I think of him as a young man,
With gold seals hanging from his watch,
And a blue coat with silver buttons.
As I lie in my bed
The flute-notes push against my ears and lips,
And I go to sleep, dreaming.

[dreamlessness]

not about guitarists again, but this is a poem about a legendary musician that i really love:

A Tree Telling of Orpheus