Harri Stojka

Guitars and needles, strings and yarn… the past
returns with chords of music, wool, and wood.
The strands of music weave their way around
his strands of hair. Its hue is like the back
of his guitar, its acorn-chestnut glow
like Grandma’s polished floor, her polished chair.
She knitted in that chair, and he knits tunes
like woolen sweaters in the air or gloves
for children’s fingers. Wrinkles line his face.
They sing of age and cold, as Grandma’s did.
Her chair had armrests polished smooth and dull,
as his chair’s arms must be. She hunched with age
and pain and concentration, as does he.
She would have liked this man, this song, these strands.

About this poem

I don’t know why I felt that I needed to write a poem about this photograph.  Maybe it has something to do with the colors in the photo or the age visible in the guitar player’s face.  I do know that I’m only half-satisfied with the poem as it now stands; I’ll have to revisit it at some point and see what I can do with it.  I’m not sure if iambic pentameter was really the way to go, but it was a fun challenge.

I hope you enjoyed it… as always, comments (especially suggestions for improvement) are more than welcome!

The violin and guitar play well by the grace of the player but cannot feel anything themselves. — Thakur Anukulchandra

(Photo Credit and License)