Bards Annual 2011 and The Guitar Maker's Fireplace

A couple of announcements before I plummet into the nitty-gritty. The Bards Initiative, a poetry-related entity based on Long Island, NY, has just released their second poetry anthology, Bards Annual 2011. Included in the anthology is one of my poems entitled "Smokey Says". I want to sincerely thank James P. Wagner, a.k.a. Ishwa, for inviting me to submit, thereby giving me this wonderful opportunity.


Secondly, in little more than a day, I will be on a plane headed for Rome, Italy, for four weeks with significant friends and colleagues. As such, I will not be updating the blog as regularly. Rest assured, however, I will get right back into it upon my return.

In the meanwhile, please enjoy this poem fresh from my synapses. I completed it merely hours ago! It was inspired by the brilliant guitar maker, John Monteleone. His work is currently being displayed as part of the Guitar Heroes exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in N.Y.C. I strongly recommend that anyone with interests in both art and music check out this extremely unique exhibit, but hurry, because it's only up until July 4th, 2011! I have had the pleasure of being graced by the beauty that is the Monteleone residence on countless occasions. On one such visit, I observed Mr. Monteleone placing some odd shaped wood onto the fire and, well, the rest is poetry. 
May God bless each and every one of you. 

The Sun King by John Monteleone

The Guitar Maker’s Fireplace

We were born from a fire,

But we died in a different fire.

We were conceived when a desire burned

Inside a brilliant man,

Persuading him and his well-worked hands

To erect what his mind aspired.

Chisels biding,

Smiling;

Planes awaiting

Jostling,

To shape, 

Whittle,

Work,

Shave

Spruce, maple, and engelman,

Stripping away the excess anatomy

That hindered them.

We took our place as heaps

Of curlicues and smithereens

That he swept up from the floor

Of his guitar shop to feed

Spitting flames in the fireplace

Of the house in which he sleeps.

He gathers up our jagged,

Rhombus pieces in his arms,

Chips and panels, planks and boards,

That did not suffice in form.

We were the siblings of

Fretboards, heels, and headstocks

Surplus younglings 

Rand from pristine wooden blocks.

Perchance we had been arched,

Clamped, 

Lacquered,

Smoothed,

Anticipating a novel existence to assume,

But our intonation wasn’t right,

Perhaps a flaw bestowed upon us,

A mistake in the wood,

Our shape no good,

A vexing blight or non-euphonic.  

We huddled together in his arms,

Bastard slabs and orphaned scraps,

Bickering amongst ourselves

With woody whispers from rubbing backs.

We were intended to compose beautiful instruments, 

While our brethren were metamorphosed, we were labeled detriment.

At the close of a cold, productive day,  

Never given the opportunity to play,  

The only music we ever made

Was the pluck and vibrato of rising flames.