The Guitarist is too a Poet
One late evening, I sit and sip on my evening tea, looking at my guitar sitting in the corner of my bedroom. It’s long, slender neck flowing into a body covered in scares from me holding a pick wrong. I pondered the legends of guitar that my mother raised me on, who helped inspire me to pick up the instrument and begin my own master of it.
In my mind’s eye, I was front row at Woodstock ‘69, watching Jimi Hendrix wail on Izabella, his haunting solos sounding like bombs exploding. Depicting a sense of violence that was only matched, by that of Langston Huges in his writing of the injustice African-American’s faced during Hendrix’s time.
I then was transported to downtown Los Angeles watching John Mayer perform his soulful blues, singing of love, that never came to be. Almost like that of Emily Dickinson, writing of longing, but knowing it will never come to be.
In this revelry, I come to a realization of what the guitarist and the poet have in common: They are both artists, the only difference being the paper they use is lined differently.
And their artwork will set all of us free.