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When I was a kid we had a scrap of paper stuck to the kitchen wall next to an old football card of Gordon Banks. I used to stand on tip-toe to stare at this scrap as my Mum worked away in the background skinning rabbits or chopping up conger eels. It had this poem written on it:
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.
Federico Garcia Lorca
Photos from Richard's "Musical Forensics" Spanish Guitar Night. Ropetackle Centre Shoreham. Taken by Chris Williams. Stage & Lights by Bill Hammond.
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