Best Sevenths Poems
Musicianship
(3 May 2014; For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)
Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?
Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.
What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,
And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.
And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.
Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian,
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)
Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.
It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.
All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.
But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.
To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Which key should I put this song in?
I sing in G Ionian/major comfortably,
Likewise the relative E Aeolian/minor scale.
Plus those guitar chords are easy as sin.
I could choose a scale that’s more exotic -
D Mixolydian has the same notes and chords.
Hungarian or Roumanian minor, Spanish Gypsy.
Or another scale derived from minor harmonic.
Keep it simple – let’s start with the G Major scale.
Should I do a basic 1-4-5 with major G/C/D chords?
Or a jazzy 2-5-1 with A minor/D/G ending on the tonic?
Let’s do a bluesy 1-4-5 with a turn-around at the tail!
Just major and minor triad chords are boring.
Major, minor, and dominant sevenths can be cool;
But I’m rather partial to suspended seconds and fourths.
My sliding E diminished flat 7th will keep the fans from snoring!
What can I do to add even more pizzazz and glitz?
Slowly build the dynamic and rhythmic complexity.
Give the crowd a tribal chorus they can sing to.
Add a spanking hot hook throughout that never quits!
A finger is pointed from you.
Three of them curling around
pointing write back at you making you frown.
Judgement is harder to do
than you have the ability to pounce on my noun.
My words were meant to display a real function.
Perhaps to envoke jealousy even to make you feel better.
Not a contest of wills or a joust of mere words.
Just wagging the tounge is what MOST of you do.
Thoughtless and stupid and hurting words will come true.
The Karma is inevitable and crashes and burns.
We may have meant well but both of us learned we were wrong.
Life is a melody played out like a song.
Living is harmony taken from song.
The razor edge coming around like this letter.
I have always liked the discordant sounds.
The sevenths and minor keys play a sad melody.
The razor cuts you and then rotates to cut me.
The judgements of men not of GOD.
Fussing and fighting and jealousy.
There is an art to the
workings of the senses.
Sight, touch, sound,
vibrant colors all around.
She sees the color magenta
when she thinks of
her childhood.
She hears thirds and sevenths
when she feels his
warm touch.
A harpist’s plucking
gives her a taste
of eternity.
Live blissfully, words whisper.
You synesthete! You poet!
Open your eyes....
It’s only lies, but aren’t they
beautiful? Don’t they
shine? Why must you feel
so behind?
“I want my senses to stop
tricking me,” she answers,
but they’ve already turned
and laughed.
Pain is stale cigarettes.
Loneliness, a deep indigo
smeared across a rainy sky.
She sits and ponders why
when it thunders
she is reminded of headaches.
Love is a smooth black pencil
upon beige pages of a
leather-bound journal.
Everything else is just reality....
the Satie 'twixt
'tween
major sevenths