Best Famous Guitar Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Guitar poems. This is a select list of the best famous Guitar poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Guitar poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of guitar poems.

Search for the best famous Guitar poems, articles about Guitar poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Guitar poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

Poems are below...

Written by Shel Silverstein | Create an image from this poem

A Boy Named Sue

 Well, my daddy left home when I was three,
and he didn't leave much to Ma and me,
just this old guitar and a bottle of booze.
Now I don't blame him because he run and hid, but the meanest thing that he ever did was before he left he went and named me Sue.
Well, he must have thought it was quite a joke, and it got lots of laughs from a lot of folks, it seems I had to fight my whole life through.
Some gal would giggle and I'd get red and some guy would laugh and I'd bust his head, I tell you, life ain't easy for a boy named Sue.
Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean.
My fist got hard and my wits got keen.
Roamed from town to town to hide my shame, but I made me a vow to the moon and the stars, I'd search the honky tonks and bars and kill that man that gave me that awful name.
But it was Gatlinburg in mid July and I had just hit town and my throat was dry.
I'd thought i'd stop and have myself a brew.
At an old saloon in a street of mud and at a table dealing stud sat the dirty, mangy dog that named me Sue.
Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad from a worn-out picture that my mother had and I knew the scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
He was big and bent and gray and old and I looked at him and my blood ran cold, and I said, "My name is Sue.
How do you do? Now you're gonna die.
" Yeah, that's what I told him.
Well, I hit him right between the eyes and he went down but to my surprise he came up with a knife and cut off a piece of my ear.
But I busted a chair right across his teeth.
And we crashed through the wall and into the street kicking and a-gouging in the mud and the blood and the beer.
I tell you I've fought tougher men but I really can't remember when.
He kicked like a mule and bit like a crocodile.
I heard him laughin' and then I heard him cussin', he went for his gun and I pulled mine first.
He stood there looking at me and I saw him smile.
And he said, "Son, this world is rough and if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough and I knew I wouldn't be there to help you along.
So I gave you that name and I said 'Goodbye'.
I knew you'd have to get tough or die.
And it's that name that helped to make you strong.
" Yeah, he said, "Now you have just fought one helluva fight, and I know you hate me and you've got the right to kill me now and I wouldn't blame you if you do.
But you ought to thank me before I die for the gravel in your guts and the spit in your eye because I'm the nut that named you Sue.
" Yeah, what could I do? What could I do? I got all choked up and I threw down my gun, called him pa and he called me a son, and I came away with a different point of view and I think about him now and then.
Every time I tried, every time I win and if I ever have a son I think I am gonna name him Bill or George - anything but Sue.
Written by Edward Lear | Create an image from this poem

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
  In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money
  Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will.
" So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.
Written by Allen Ginsberg | Create an image from this poem

Death and Fame

 When I die
I don't care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery
But l want a big funeral
Patrick's Cathedral, St.
Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in Manhattan First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 96, Aunt Honey from old Newark, Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister- in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters their grandchildren, companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan-- Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche, there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting America, Satchitananda Swami Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche, Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi's phantoms Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau Roshis, Lama Tarchen -- Then, most important, lovers over half-century Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories "He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand day retreat --" "I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he loved me" "I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone" "We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly arms round each other" "I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my skivvies would be on the floor" "Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master" "We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then sleep in his captain's bed.
" "He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy" "I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my stomach shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips-- " "All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth & fingers along my waist" "He gave great head" So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commin- gling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997 and surprise -- "You too? But I thought you were straight!" "I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me.
" "I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head, my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly.
on my prick, tickled with his tongue my behind" "I loved the way he'd recite 'But at my back allways hear/ time's winged chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a pillow --" Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear "I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his walk-up flat, seduced me didn't want to, made me come, went home, never saw him again never wanted to.
" "He couldn't get it up but loved me," "A clean old man.
" "He made sure I came first" This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor-- Then poets & musicians -- college boys' grunge bands -- age-old rock star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical con- ductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trum- peters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin auto- harp pennywhistles & kazoos Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60's India, Late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman Massa- chusets surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American provinces Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate biblio- philes, sex liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either sex "I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved him anyway, true artist" "Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me from suicide hospitals" "Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my studio guest a week in Budapest" Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois" "I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet-- " "He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas City" "Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City" "Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982" "I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized others like me out there" Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photo- graphy aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural historians come to witness the historic funeral Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autograph- hunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive February 22, 1997
Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley | Create an image from this poem

To a Lady with a Guitar

ARIEL to Miranda:¡ªTake 
This slave of music for the sake 
Of him who is the slave of thee; 
And teach it all the harmony 
In which thou canst and only thou 5 
Make the delighted spirit glow  
Till joy denies itself again 
And too intense is turn'd to pain.
For by permission and command Of thine own Prince Ferdinand 10 Poor Ariel sends this silent token Of more than ever can be spoken; Your guardian spirit Ariel who From life to life must still pursue Your happiness for thus alone 15 Can Ariel ever find his own.
From Prospero's enchanted cell As the mighty verses tell To the throne of Naples he Lit you o'er the trackless sea 20 Flitting on your prow before Like a living meteor.
When you die the silent Moon In her interlunar swoon Is not sadder in her cell 25 Than deserted Ariel:¡ª When you live again on earth Like an unseen Star of birth Ariel guides you o'er the sea Of life from your nativity:¡ª 30 Many changes have been run Since Ferdinand and you begun Your course of love and Ariel still Has track'd your steps and served your will.
Now in humbler happier lot 35 This is all remember'd not; And now alas the poor Sprite is Imprison'd for some fault of his In a body like a grave¡ª From you he only dares to crave 40 For his service and his sorrow A smile to-day a song to-morrow.
The artist who this viol wrought To echo all harmonious thought Fell'd a tree while on the steep 45 The woods were in their winter sleep Rock'd in that repose divine On the wind-swept Apennine; And dreaming some of autumn past And some of spring approaching fast 50 And some of April buds and showers And some of songs in July bowers And all of love; and so this tree ¡ª Oh that such our death may be!¡ª Died in sleep and felt no pain 55 To live in happier form again: From which beneath heaven's fairest star The artist wrought this loved guitar; And taught it justly to reply To all who question skilfully 60 In language gentle as thine own; Whispering in enamour'd tone Sweet oracles of woods and dells And summer winds in sylvan cells.
For it had learnt all harmonies 65 Of the plains and of the skies Of the forests and the mountains And the many-voic¨¨d fountains; The clearest echoes of the hills The softest notes of falling rills 70 The melodies of birds and bees The murmuring of summer seas And pattering rain and breathing dew And airs of evening; and it knew That seldom-heard mysterious sound 75 Which driven on its diurnal round As it floats through boundless day Our world enkindles on its way:¡ª All this it knows but will not tell To those who cannot question well 80 The spirit that inhabits it: It talks according to the wit Of its companions; and no more Is heard than has been felt before By those who tempt it to betray 85 These secrets of an elder day.
But sweetly as its answers will Flatter hands of perfect skill It keeps its highest holiest tone For one beloved Friend alone.
Written by Gary Soto | Create an image from this poem

Saturday At The Canal

 I was hoping to be happy by seventeen.
School was a sharp check mark in the roll book, An obnoxious tuba playing at noon because our team Was going to win at night.
The teachers were Too close to dying to understand.
The hallways Stank of poor grades and unwashed hair.
Thus, A friend and I sat watching the water on Saturday, Neither of us talking much, just warming ourselves By hurling large rocks at the dusty ground And feeling awful because San Francisco was a postcard On a bedroom wall.
We wanted to go there, Hitchhike under the last migrating birds And be with people who knew more than three chords On a guitar.
We didn't drink or smoke, But our hair was shoulder length, wild when The wind picked up and the shadows of This loneliness gripped loose dirt.
By bus or car, By the sway of train over a long bridge, We wanted to get out.
The years froze As we sat on the bank.
Our eyes followed the water, White-tipped but dark underneath, racing out of town.
Written by Olu Oguibe | Create an image from this poem

Song of Sorrow

Song of Sorrow 
for rosa diez

si només, però, aquesta
llum parada poguès durar 

I shall sing you a song of 
Sorrow when the moment comes.
It is the way of poets.
He will come bearing along his voice Like the lament of an old guitar.
Only night shall fall; another day dawn.
I shall sing you a tearful song.
In the desert the rain fell on me.
Bushfires danced their way through The undergrowth of my verse.
Your footfall soft as felt, you Stepped into the light and Asked the poet for a song.
I shall sing you a lyric of pain.
The blue moon peers through the foliage Of your eyelashes.
The minstrel hawks His tears through the streets of night.
A household god is asking for water; An old god is pleading at your door.
There's a white rose on your breast.
It is the fortune of poets; I shall sing you a song.
Untie the fresh leaves of dawn, I want to make my journey short.
I will go upon the hill and cast my little net, Decorate the river of your morning with petals; I shall speak the words of songs.
It is the destiny of poets.
I shall sing you A song of sorrow When the moment comes.
Written by Jim Carroll | Create an image from this poem

8 Fragments For Kurt Cobain

Genius is not a generous thing
In return it charges more interest than any amount of royalties can cover
And it resents fame
With bitter vengeance 

Pills and powdres only placate it awhile
Then it puts you in a place where the planet's poles reverse
Where the currents of electricity shift 

Your Body becomes a magnet and pulls to it despair and rotten teeth,
Cheese whiz and guns 

Whose triggers are shaped tenderly into a false lust
In timeless illusion 

The guitar claws kept tightening, I guess on your heart stem.
The loops of feedback and distortion, threaded right thru Lucifer's wisdom teeth, and never stopped their reverbrating In your mind And from the stage All the faces out front seemed so hungry With an unbearably wholesome misunderstanding From where they sat, you seemed so far up there High and live and diving And instead you were swamp crawling Down, deeper Until you tasted the Earth's own blood And chatted with the Buzzing-eyed insects that heroin breeds 3/ You should have talked more with the monkey He's always willing to negotiate I'm still paying him off.
The greater the money and fame The slower the Pendulum of fortune swings Your will could have sped it up.
But you left that in a plane Because it wouldn't pass customs and immigration 4/ Here's synchronicity for you: Your music's tape was inside my walkman When my best friend from summer camp Called with the news about you I listened them.
It was all there! Your music kept cutting deeper and deeper valleys of sound Less and less light Until you hit solid rock The drill bit broke and the valley became A thin crevice, impassible in time, As time itself stopped.
And the walls became cages of brilliant notes Pressing in.
Pressure That's how diamonds are made And that's WHERE it sometimes all collapses Down in on you 5/ Then I translated your muttered lyrics And the phrases were curious: Like "incognito libido" And "Chalk Skin Bending" The words kept getting smaller and smaller Until Separated from their music Each letter spilled out into a cartridge Which fit only in the barrel of a gun 6/ And you shoved the barrel in as far as possible Because that's where the pain came from That's where the demons were digging The world outside was blank Its every cause was just a continuation Of another unsolved effect 7/ But Kurt.
Didn't the thought that you would never write another song Another feverish line or riff Make you think twice? That's what I don't understand Because it's kept me alive, above any wounds 8/ If only you hadn't swallowed yourself into a coma in Roma.
You could have gone to Florence And looked into the eyes of Bellinni or Rafael's Portraits Perhaps inside them You could have found a threshold back to beauty's arms Where it all began.
No matter that you felt betrayed by her That is always the cost As Frank said, Of a young artist's remorseless passion Which starts out as a kiss And follows like a curse
Written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | Create an image from this poem

A Womans Shortcomings

 She has laughed as softly as if she sighed,
She has counted six, and over,
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried -
Oh, each a worthy lover!
They "give her time"; for her soul must slip
Where the world has set the grooving;
She will lie to none with her fair red lip:
But love seeks truer loving.
She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb, As her thoughts were beyond recalling; With a glance for one, and a glance for some, From her eyelids rising and falling; Speaks common words with a blushful air, Hears bold words, unreproving; But her silence says - what she never will swear - And love seeks better loving.
Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar, And drop a smile to the bringer; Then smile as sweetly, when he is far, At the voice of an in-door singer.
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes; Glance lightly, on their removing; And join new vows to old perjuries - But dare not call it loving! Unless you can think, when the song is done, No other is soft in the rhythm; Unless you can feel, when left by One, That all men else go with him; Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath, That your beauty itself wants proving; Unless you can swear "For life, for death!" - Oh, fear to call it loving! Unless you can muse in a crowd all day On the absent face that fixed you; Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbehoving; Unless you can die when the dream is past - Oh, never call it loving!
Written by Erin Belieu | Create an image from this poem

All Distance

 Writing from Boston, where sky is simply
property, a flourish topping crowds
of condos and historic real estate,
I'm trying to imagine blue sky:
the first time, where it happened,
what I was becoming.
Being taken there by car, from a town so newly born that grass still accounted all distance, an explanation drawn in measureless yellows, a tone stubbling the whole world, ten minutes away.
Consider now how the single pussy willow edging a cattle pond in winter becomes a wind-shivered monument to what this mean a placid loneliness asking nothing, nothing?.
Not knowing then the proper name for things green chubs of milo, the husbandry of soy, bovine patience, the rhythm of the cud, sea green foam washing round a cow's mouth, its tender udders, the surprise of an animal's dignity.
but something comes before Before car or cow, before sky becomes.
That sky, I mean, disregarded as buried memory .
There was a time before.
Remember when the tiny sightless hand could not know, not say hand, but knew it in its straying, knew it in the cool condensation steaming the station wagon windows, thrums of heat blowing a brand of idiot's safety over the brightly-wrapped package that was then your body, well-loved? This must have been you, looking out at that world of flat, buttered fields and blackbirds ascending.
' But what was sky then? Today, I receive a postcard of a blue guitar.
Here, snow falls with wings, tumbling in its feathered body, melting on the window glass.
How each evening becomes another beautiful woman holding the color of expensive sapphires against her throat, I'll never know.
It is an ordinary clarity.
So then was it music? Something like love or words, a sentimental moment once years ago, that blue sky? How soon the sky and I have grown apart.
On the postcard, an old man hangs half-dead, strung over his instrument, and what I have imagined is half-dead, too.
Our bones end hollow, sky blue; the flute comes untuned.
Written by Geoffrey Chaucer | Create an image from this poem

The Cooks Tale

THE Cook of London, while the Reeve thus spake, For joy he laugh'd and clapp'd him on the back: "Aha!" quoth he, "for Christes passion, This Miller had a sharp conclusion, Upon this argument of herbergage.
* *lodging Well saide Solomon in his language, Bring thou not every man into thine house, For harbouring by night is perilous.
*Well ought a man avised for to be* *a man should take good heed* Whom that he brought into his privity.
I pray to God to give me sorrow and care If ever, since I highte* Hodge of Ware, *was called Heard I a miller better *set a-work*; *handled He had a jape* of malice in the derk.
*trick But God forbid that we should stinte* here, *stop And therefore if ye will vouchsafe to hear A tale of me, that am a poore man, I will you tell as well as e'er I can A little jape that fell in our city.
" Our Host answer'd and said; "I grant it thee.
Roger, tell on; and look that it be good, For many a pasty hast thou letten blood, And many a Jack of Dover<1> hast thou sold, That had been twice hot and twice cold.
Of many a pilgrim hast thou Christe's curse, For of thy parsley yet fare they the worse.
That they have eaten in thy stubble goose: For in thy shop doth many a fly go loose.
Now tell on, gentle Roger, by thy name, But yet I pray thee be not *wroth for game*; *angry with my jesting* A man may say full sooth in game and play.
" "Thou sayst full sooth," quoth Roger, "by my fay; But sooth play quad play,<2> as the Fleming saith, And therefore, Harry Bailly, by thy faith, Be thou not wroth, else we departe* here, *part company Though that my tale be of an hostelere.
* *innkeeper But natheless, I will not tell it yet, But ere we part, y-wis* thou shalt be quit.
"<3> *assuredly And therewithal he laugh'd and made cheer,<4> And told his tale, as ye shall after hear.
Notes to the Prologue to the Cook's Tale 1.
Jack of Dover: an article of cookery.
(Transcriber's note: suggested by some commentators to be a kind of pie, and by others to be a fish) 2.
Sooth play quad play: true jest is no jest.
It may be remembered that each pilgrim was bound to tell two stories; one on the way to Canterbury, the other returning.
Made cheer: French, "fit bonne mine;" put on a pleasant countenance.
A prentice whilom dwelt in our city, And of a craft of victuallers was he: Galliard* he was, as goldfinch in the shaw**, *lively **grove Brown as a berry, a proper short fellaw: With lockes black, combed full fetisly.
* *daintily And dance he could so well and jollily, That he was called Perkin Revellour.
He was as full of love and paramour, As is the honeycomb of honey sweet; Well was the wenche that with him might meet.
At every bridal would he sing and hop; He better lov'd the tavern than the shop.
For when there any riding was in Cheap,<1> Out of the shoppe thither would he leap, And, till that he had all the sight y-seen, And danced well, he would not come again; And gather'd him a meinie* of his sort, *company of fellows To hop and sing, and make such disport: And there they *sette steven* for to meet *made appointment* To playen at the dice in such a street.
For in the towne was there no prentice That fairer coulde cast a pair of dice Than Perkin could; and thereto *he was free *he spent money liberally Of his dispence, in place of privity.
* where he would not be seen* That found his master well in his chaffare,* *merchandise For oftentime he found his box full bare.
For, soothely, a prentice revellour, That haunteth dice, riot, and paramour, His master shall it in his shop abie*, *suffer for All* have he no part of the minstrelsy.
*although For theft and riot they be convertible, All can they play on *gitern or ribible.
* *guitar or rebeck* Revel and truth, as in a low degree, They be full wroth* all day, as men may see.
*at variance This jolly prentice with his master bode, Till he was nigh out of his prenticehood, All were he snubbed* both early and late, *rebuked And sometimes led with revel to Newgate.
But at the last his master him bethought, Upon a day when he his paper<2> sought, Of a proverb, that saith this same word; Better is rotten apple out of hoard, Than that it should rot all the remenant: So fares it by a riotous servant; It is well lesse harm to let him pace*, *pass, go Than he shend* all the servants in the place.
*corrupt Therefore his master gave him a quittance, And bade him go, with sorrow and mischance.
And thus this jolly prentice had his leve*: *desire Now let him riot all the night, or leave*.
*refrain And, for there is no thief without a louke,<3> That helpeth him to wasten and to souk* *spend Of that he bribe* can, or borrow may, *steal Anon he sent his bed and his array Unto a compere* of his owen sort, *comrade That loved dice, and riot, and disport; And had a wife, that held *for countenance* *for appearances* A shop, and swived* for her sustenance.
*prostituted herself .
<4> Notes to the Cook's Tale 1.
Cheapside, where jousts were sometimes held, and which was the great scene of city revels and processions.
His paper: his certificate of completion of his apprenticeship.
Louke: The precise meaning of the word is unknown, but it is doubtless included in the cant term "pal".
The Cook's Tale is unfinished in all the manuscripts; but in some, of minor authority, the Cook is made to break off his tale, because "it is so foul," and to tell the story of Gamelyn, on which Shakespeare's "As You Like It" is founded.
The story is not Chaucer's, and is different in metre, and inferior in composition to the Tales.
It is supposed that Chaucer expunged the Cook's Tale for the same reason that made him on his death- bed lament that he had written so much "ribaldry.