Monday, May 31, 2010

Guitarist (Old Poem I remembered based on a conversation with Paul B)

She squeezes my hand tightly-
the wetness makes me squirm.
She cannot talk, breathes shallowly.
Bemused, I wait for the unraveling.

He strolls on stage, claiming the space.
I drink his scent of oil and nectar, stunned;
He positions his finger at the base,
the other hand on the stem.
With a gasp, his first note plunges
into my secret hollow.

Threadbare at the end, I cry:
Forget her, pluck my brains out.


Paul Bernard said...

Haha, great poem. I love the way there's no pretence to the instrument itself, it's pure sex!
And why not, holding a guitar is like holding a woman. Surely that is why man crafted its curved body onto wood?
Anyway, I'm afraid I have to admit to being a guitarist. And I'll be so sad to see you go off that cliff near Rick's, but be sure I'll be jammin with Dollyman as you dive.

Jaquanda Rae said...

LOL. Glad you liked the poem. I used to read it all the time at poetry events...I had forgotten all about it. The cliff at Rick's Cafe is synonymous with wild freedom and pure is the free and slightly crazy who jump, always to resurface. It's the best place in Jamaica....well, that's purely relative. I am obsessed with the fricking sexy!