"cellist" poems
Surviving a War that doesn’t seem to end, bombing and sniping all around. This is the real story in a book called “ The Cellist Of Sarajevo”, where three characters emerge to face this adversity head on. You have Arrow once a innocent young girl, now trained assassin to **** her targets without making a sound. Then you got Kenan a person who risks his life to fetch water for his family and others in need, no matter if it weighs a ton. Finally you have Dragan the person hard to explain, he just does what he needs to do, he will come to not care about the dangers of the outside, because he will control his own destiny. Each of them has their place in the race to survive this cruel onslaught from the men on the hills weaponry.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
A SEAHORSE QUESTIONING
( for Onelia )
The cellist's hand
waits outside time
pauses
beside his instrument
like an exotic fish
steadying itself
in the flow of the music
before dashing out
from behind a glowing coral
eagerly snapping up
the little notes that swim by
at his head
his cello bobs
like a seahorse
questioning
all that is
happening
as he tries to enter
the same stream
(despite Heraclitus's advice)
.. twice.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
In the light of your immaculate form I make the following declaration:
I will be your jealous cellist-
(I.)
And I will play you like a stringed instrument - then
When you make delighted whisperings
And finesse the fine music of the feminine, magnificent
Your heathen distemper
Distributed,
woman-like, goddess-like
Classic cello-shape
Draped in lilting silk
Then
I will fiddle and pluck
Cast broad swathes near and about your single tingling place
Your attuned instrument
And it's spruce wooded
frontispiece.
(II.)
You faux arabesque
(for faux is our shared domain)-
Your hands moving gracefully - you pause -
Feigning flight
Feigning fancy
Considering
My rising fire
Weighty desire
Shadows mingle with glimpses of
My thickness and length-
Veined skin and steel,
White - waiting, wanting -
And there's an answer.
(III.)
You are girl - such a girl
I am boy, only boy
My persistent mans eye view
Part pleased with the flashes of you -
Now in new
Near **** rhythm
This gilded exuberance,
Radiant
Hypnotic
Sets sparks flying
Tickling toward sky and stars
I would have you
My dexterous digits upon your supple, warm-
Fragrant fresh flesh fret board
I would squeeze you where
Your mystery resides and
Elsewhere besides.
(IV.)
Roughly - at first - needy
Determined -
I would play upon
Your duet of juice creators
Invoke the
Holiness of your
Secret sacred spaces
Doublet, Triplet, Quintet
Play on! play on!
I would have you
With my plugging piece
There! There!
Your open legs
Secretly seeking my carnival of thrusting
Inside your warm girls pearl
Antidote for collective loneliness.
(V. )
I would hold you, your sides -
Firm in my greed
Our lustful minuet in 3/4 time
Play on, play on - I
Kiss your neck,
nibble your *******
It's you, it's you
You arch yourself toward me
Warmly
Affectionate,
We hold hands, fingers between,
And dance.
(VI.)
This some time Summertime
Bright flame
We reach - how we reach-
Our mouths, our tongues -
The very words we speak- yearning for -
longing for -
Connection
Each to the other, and
Our connection to God
"Rightful sin -
Come to us again
And again - and again
Satisfy our minds!"
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
At the ripe age of three
I would take full sheets of paper
and set them gently in front of me
and think of how beautiful they were.
Because they were waiting for my words.
But it wasn't until I was in the eleventh
grade that I found them
hiding with my heartbeat.
I never really fought with my fists
but I fought with a little too much heart.
Felt a bit too much
but I don't regret it.
Nor will I ever.
Do you know how to make things beautiful?
The cellist sitting on the street corner
bowing those strings that haven't yet
broken and remember,
that you never paid attention to how it looked.
But it was gorgeous.
And you're gorgeous.
We never measure life
with how many
heart beats we've got
we measure it by how many
miles we've walked.
And although we're not perfect,
neither is God.
We are strong.
We are beautiful.
And I wonder which is more dangerous;
a bottle of whiskey
or a loaded gun.
But it doesn't matter
because somewhere out there
there's someone promising
that they will paint their lover's
portrait in the sky with fire.
And all my life I've hated being a man,
so I decided that these poems
they're my children.
And after you hear them,
I hope that you'll carry them with you.
So don't walk through your life
with your ears covered.
This is for the women who make our heartbeats.
Who give birth to lives.
And this,
this is for the men.
Who sacrifice everything they have
just so they can keep telling
someone that they love them.
I can count ten thousand reasons
to be alive.
But only one reason to be right here.
Beauty kiss my lips.
Mercy show us tears.
We have to fill the gaps with something alive.
So I spend my spare time remembering
your eyes by heart.
Let's split this night open.
We'll cleave it with our words.
We'll sew together our gaping wounds
with the strings of kites,
so that when the wind blows
birds will pluck at them and make
music from our strife.
Remember this.
We couldn't have asked for a more
exciting time to be alive.
So let's make something beautiful.
Lay me down under a blanket of stars
so that when I wake up I can
find my way home.
This world can be cold but
I've learned that heartbeats are louder than gunshots.
And you don't need to tell me there's more out there
Instead I'll go stargazing in your
eyes and strip these
ribbons from my arms.
Build me.
Give me something worthwhile.
And let's learn
how to make things pretty.
Feb 6, 2010
Feb 6, 2010 at 2:35 PM UTC
My actions are caused by who knows what
but fixed with the simple ,
cellist who plays , my instability away
the violin that makes the lost child feel found ,
the Viola plays through my ears ,
cleansing my brain of stress
the Piano picks away my paranoia
the orchestra is such a sound to apprehend
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
God no you didn't die
I wasn't with you
God knows I never tried
To make me more like you
The evening never breaks
Without lightening on your face
If I could see it all again
I'd go back and watch it end
Magnificent
Dreaming friend
Never never sleep
It's not nice
I went
Screaming when
I saw your dying breath
Hold hold hold
Hold on
I'm not dreaming I'm not dying
Without your song
Won't won't won't
Won't you be
A little bit less frightening
A little more alive again
I don't pretend anymore
I know it's over but I can't move alone
Without your song
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
*Evergreen soldiers at the whim of Alraus
I've had a recurrent dream of the enlisted warriors
abandoning their post , occupying the fertile grassland
in a chess type move to gain control
Free of shade , of root-bound thirst , of choking
moss gathering unchallenged in overpopulated arbors
A celebration courtesy of the Robin Knights , the Chickadee troubadours ,
the Cardinal gentlemen at the Court of Queen Chestnut
Slash , sugar , loblolly and white oak
Persimmon , hickory , honey locust and dogwood
The myrrh of gardenia , magnolia , honeysuckle and tea rose
Earthen red clay , white sand , black loam and kaolin
Grasshopper cellist , cricket flautist , a chuckling crow with a
Spanish guitar
The toad trombones , a bluebird violin solo , a mockingbird reads
a touching poem that even sways the worker ants into a brief pause
The Old Forest becomes pasture and the grassland young woodland
The dove cue the night , the katydids croon to the moon ,
the bullfrogs 'pooka-dooka' and the lovers swoon* ...
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
I write symphonies.
Not with a pen but a brush.
My words aren't spoken.
They are thrown.
They are splattered.
I feel each stroke as a note.
A cellist writing his greatest concerto.
A masterpiece.
And I'm writing for you.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
Four strings and rosin,
Resin of old cello fires,
. . . Fingers in amber.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
somehow yesterday's air seemed cleaner.
the sky seemed clearer and the grass greener
and the singing of crickets was like the chaos of an
untuned orchestra waiting to play, and there was dew
on the violins, and the cellist forgot his bow, but it was beautiful anyway.
so how has everything that seemed
so untouchable, so without blemish, so innocently complex,
become ruined, in a night?
how did the sky fill with clouds and the air fill with ash
that builds up in my lungs with no relief from the gasping -
grasping at straws -
but there's dust on my fingertips and i can't keep hold
there was once something beautiful in the things that one could not see
but hear and one could not touch but believe, only faith doesn't
seem to get you anywhere these days, now,
and that's all i have.
they can't take that from me, or at least that's what i hear,
but you can't believe what you hear - you can't even believe what you see
you have to have faith it isn't all just fake
which is ironic, because if faith didn't get us anywhere we wouldn't be able to believe
anything anymore
because this reality has clouded skies and
complicated lies disguised as
simple
misunderstandings, because everyone wants things
their way but let me tell you something,
the world isn't a burger king -
it's a giant glass sphere with dew covered
orchestras that just want to play you to sleep,
but you can't stop to listen because you can't even breathe.
you're under six feet of sand that rose up from the
ground to drown you in your own
smug sense of self righteousness,
when sin was just as close to the surface
as all that kindness you wore as a mask.
if you can dig yourself out
by all means, be my guest -
but if I had to take a guess you'll be there for a while.
let the image of that cloud filled sky and
that leaden feeling in your ash
filled lungs ruminate -
let it make up the half of yourself that you somehow
left on that clear skied day that seems to have been
an eternity ago.
the half of yourself that wanted to hear the
dew covered cricket orchestra and contemplate the silence of the star filled sky.
and if you ask really nicely, maybe the rain will erode
your sandy tomb and you won't have to dig
yourself out.
maybe you won't have to
plead with a million granules of self doubt.
but i wouldn't count on it.
so if i were you, i would start digging.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
I fell like a fool
like a fool for you
how much inspiration
you've ever given to me
I guess I will call you
***** philosophy and **** from now on
you're such a cutie
as mellow as a sweet child
as talented as the fifth cellist from the string quartet
beautiful and new
as the flowers when they start to bloom
your voice and your laugh
thinking about it makes me sad
cause I know I can't have you
not that long
but that doesn't make me not to want you
even though I don't need you and you will only give me
that pain I've been craving to feel
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 8:09 PM UTC
My art
My passion awakes
My fingertips
From your tailpiece
Your tailpiece
To your neck
Pulsating change
Change of pitch
Rigorous vibrato
My fingers
On your strings
In an extreme tremolo
My hands
Are bewitched
By your slender auburn corpo
Your firm belly
Twitched
In a perfect falsetto
I pluck
You whisper
Bisbigliando
Your fingerboard
Wildly opens
In stile concitato
I play your chord
Your nakedness
In a gentle adagio
You whimper in a rich
Sonorous
Pianissimo
In my warmth
You arouse
In intense crescendo
Swollen, overwhelmed
By our wonderful
Concerto
You rest
Satisfied
In a climactic finale
Crafted
In good music
By an ******** play
My little secret
My little piece
A jewel on my chest
You are my cello
I am your
Cellist
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
A SEAHORSE QUESTIONING
( for Onelia)
The cellist's hand
waits outside the music
pauses
beside his instrument
like an exotic fish
steadying itself
in the flow of the music
before dashing out
from behind a glowing coral
eagerly snapping up
the little notes that swim by.
At Nazzareno's head
his cello bobs
like a seahorse
questioning
all that is
happening
as he tries to enter
the same stream
(despite Heraclitus's advice)
~ ~ ~ t/w/i/c/e/.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
She sits—left leg upon right,
right hand resting in left,
eyes closed, watching joy drift
among sorrows; up one minute,
down the next; a Ferris wheel
of fear and loneliness, then
moments of letting go;
the brows furrowed and then
a smile on her lips—the way a
cellist emotes herself through Bach.
Others have said to her that she is
lucky to be so groundless, to be
free of any misapprehension that
life is perfect or that it will be easy.
She knows better than that.
And because she does, she can take
the crests and the troughs as they come—
a part of the ocean and not the wave.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
The old man without wrinkles
Was playing
Patience
Spreading his cards on the bed
Talking to himself
About his moves
Engrossed in his own world
Of cards and advancing years
People are going and coming
Through his room
Not the least bothered
He is busy with
His outer world
He is not waiting for
The dead end.
When his cataract-operated eyes
Will be tired
He will express his desire
To sit in the veranda
His books and a dictionary
Will be put on the table
And he is seen engrossed
Again cut off from
The outer world
Immersed
In the world of books
Sometimes he would lift up
His head smile and look around
And again go into his self-created world,
Today I read a status on FB
About the legendary cellist,
Pablo Casals who used to practice
At the age of ninety; and beyond
I find similarity between them
Both of them are making progress
In life, defeating despair, it seems
Shutting the dark thoughts
From their inner worlds
Last night
I saw him in my dream playing
Patience and l heard
The distinct strokes of bow on a Cello
And now I woke up
With awe at the way
They were not
Actually waiting
But celebrating!
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Face to Face
nose to nose
jousting breaths
teasing
every sense
in their bodies
Lips close but not
quite, so much to say
yet silence inhibited
all sense of speech
His hands
slid sensually up and down
her spine
strumming seductive moans
she was his cello
and he, her cellist
conducting a symphony
that she
and only she
can excel at
Jousting breaths
high moans
tender touches
skin on skin
it's just
ethereal
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 5:15 AM UTC
exhausted by the nights & dawn
that break me over you
I've tried a thousand times and still
there's nothing I can do
I've skipped the songs
& cursed your arms
I burn inside my sleep;
to wake now wearing scars
from break-neck-love
made urgently
the truth in me
I'll never speak
of love that wouldn't keep;
my bones they lay
upon the stage
get played with bows of grief
the cellist stripped my ribs
a trick to twist in perfect fifths
& I admit, a love like this
a pain I cannot quit
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
A SEAHORSE QUESTIONING
( for Onelia)
The cellist's hand
waits outside the music
pauses
beside his instrument
like an exotic fish
steadying itself
in the flow of the music
before dashing out
from behind a glowing coral
eagerly snapping up
the little notes that swim by.
At Nazzareno's head
his cello bobs
like a seahorse
questioning
all that is
happening
as he tries to enter
the same stream
(despite Heraclitus's advice)
~ ~ ~ t/w/i/c/e/.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
My parents passed away last spring. Two weeks apart, it was hard to bear.
She was a cellist, he played violin. Their instruments were old and rare.
Growing up, I’d hear them practice. For practice is the only way
to make effort appear effortless in the first chairs on concert day.
Our house resounded with their music. As I grew, I’d also play.
Our family spoke with strings, not voices.
Then there was silence, when they passed away.
Her Cello was made by Testore; His violin was by Lupot,
both treasures of the Luthier’s art.
I wept to see them gathering dust.
Mute witnesses as Death played his part.
It’s hard for artists nowadays to afford such quality.
hard, as well, for me to sell, to send their instruments away
A friend suggested a better way; to keep my loved ones’ legacy
My colleagues play with them on loan; their borrowed voices speak to me.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
My skin is blank sheet music,
and you begin to craft a
song with me.
We write an entire
symphony upon each other,
practicing arpeggios and scales
until each one is
perfectly blended into the next,
one movement cannot be distinguished
from the other.
You begin your overture,
striking chords along
my collar bone and ribs,
each tone lovingly clear.
You are the real composer,
the maestro,
the cellist.
I am simply your muse,
your baton,
your bow.
The reprise begins to fade,
our breath comes back to us,
and we treasure the invisible
notes, rests, and tempos
that played across our skin.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
your heart, I wish I could see it laid out before me,
like when I watch a cellist play their part beautifully,
wood and sinew, bow and flesh,
enmesh,
in a dance, where notes fall like a wash of tears,
which run down, laughing so hard at the sadness,
as notes ascend and descend.
the chest rises and falls,
and all I want to see, in truth, is your heart,
the cello braced for news good or bad that
you are about to share, but not your heart,
please don't play me for a fool, I'm not an
instrument too, that you have found boxy,
and poorly made with materials that age fades,
what will you do, when I can no longer hold
my tune?
your heart, I need to see the path you are going to walk,
so we can go side by side, no secrets, our touch is real, with
no distance, so we can in whispered voices, talk, not like the
bow that makes those strings sing, or the pressure of those
fingers to get the notes just so, no...
Like the notes on the aged sheet music, the dark spots and lines
now fade, here and there but remember, the music we once moved
to, now moves us in our memories, treasured and measured beats,
your heart has shaped them, whole notes have become half notes and changed my life...
now reveal to me will we ever share a destiny?
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
if you keep lying to yourself it’ll come true.
you’re not hurting yourself.
you’re not cutting.
you’re eating enough.
you’re not suicidal.
you’re not depressed.
you’re getting enough sleep.
you’re good enough.
you’re a good person.
you’re happy.
you’re okay.
you’re a good singer.
you’re a good artist.
you’re a good writer.
you’re understanding.
you’re a good friend.
you’re not manipulative.
you’re not sensitive.
you’re a good listener.
you’re able to vent.
you’re valid.
you’re listened to.
you’re not being manipulated.
you’re not lying to yourself.
you’re telling the truth.
you’re always there for others.
you’re patient.
you’re trying hard enough.
you’re not annoyed easily.
you’re a good cellist.
you’re a good student.
you’re a good child.
you’re funny.
you’re confident.
you’re not at all shy.
you’re creative.
you’re able to achieve your dreams.
you’re loved.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 12:04 AM UTC
All are invited to taste-test a French meal, free-of-charge, at the
Table of near west side Chef Louis. The first course will be a
Salade Niçoise, prepared the usual way – vegetables, salad greens
From the Periwinkle family, des oeufs durs et des olives ‒ Flavored with a pinch of myrtle. Those so inclined may have escargots instead. Louis will pop the cork on a vintage vin rouge.
The main course: canard à l’orange, spécialité de la maison.
Known far and wide as the best duck in town, it has a secret sauce
Including the bird’s bone marrow, and is a favorite of Paul Soglin;
Hizzoner has been showing up brandishing a “ditch Walker” sign.
While the cuisine is incomparable, the dinner music, too, is
Délicieuse. In town for only a week is the diva, Renée Fleming,
Accompanied by the virtuoso cellist, Yo-Yo Ma. To forestall the
Entry of hordes of fans, Louis will have the louvers closed.
The wait staff will be in the wings with the *dessert du jour, Crêpes
Suzette* – using the best Orange Curaçao ‒ before a small frigate
Is unmoored for return to the Lesser Antilles to pick up a new
Stash. Louis is a total service restauranteur, and he has vowed to
Let all his guests take a selfie, with him, Yo-Yo and Renée, in the
Private chef’s booth, in just a glimmer of the day’s remaining light.
Though he’s unbearded, Louis uses Brilliantine regularly to help
Him attract the most voluptuous of available dates. *Mais, prenez
Garde, mes demoiselles, Louis est français, après tout….*
© Lewis Bosworth, 7-2017
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
For my nimble fingers sting,
Yet it is not written in the music.
I must play as if I were Mozart!
I wish to play as Morgan.
A forever battle of who to be.
A blend I suppose.
They use words like double bar and chord,
For I have not the faintest idea what they mean.
As tears well in the corners of the eye,
They do not flow.
Because the only flow,
Is the rhythm of my bow.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC