bridging fretwork
of six generations
we finger warm tones
of our sultry biography
played upon hills of the
quaint mezzogiorno
in villages breezy
with minstrels our lives
overlapping the music
that drifts along Roman
laid cobbles of stucco
walled donkey-cart lanes
perfect fifths sing from
double-stringed courses
arousing the voices who
gather at tables al fresco
congenial with wine
we cradle in turn of our
time our veined heirloom
this luthier legacy crafted
of rosewood and spruce
Neapolitan bowlback
inlaid with rope purfling
more than an instrument
this is our vessel
our casual joys held and
cherished in songs of two
peasant born centuries
My son plays one – I’ll have him play when he’s about and I can read the poem again and savour it!
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my beloved big brother was its master – alas, he’s been gone for 30 years now
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my beloved big brother was its master – alas, he is gone 30 years now
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Brilliant 🙂
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oh, pshaw
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🙂 No really! 🙂
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Lovely. I feel it in my fingertips
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then I succeeded
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Beautiful piece of writing, Paul! So fittingly described, the melodious mandolin. By the way, do you play the instrument? Regards, Iris.
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glad you enjoyed it – I can barely pluck a few basic chords – my brother was a master
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Gorgeous language (I love “sultry biography”), and the sound of a mandolin takes me away….
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it can really set the heartstrings to thrumming
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I hear your roots and past screaming songs of touched strings in this one.. A melody of harmony..
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thank you, dear friend
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Beautiful! This poem certainly captures the essence of the instrument. My boyfriend plays the mandolin. He will love to read this poem as well =)
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much appreciated, catherine
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Brings back memories if Grandpa playing for me to dance to many a happy afternoon! Thank you!
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my pleasure, ellen – sounds like wonderful memories
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Excellent. Love the idea of the instrument as a vessel of joy.
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thanks kindly, Deb
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Reblogged this on Poesy plus Polemics.
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I’m so sorry you lost your brother, Paul–must have been heavenly to listen to him play. A mandolin inspires poetry always.
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thank you
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