guitar

[billy]

i never got chance to reply straight away.
the opening of the poem feels too convenient
and i kept asking myself; why was creaking upstairs for her wallet, why was it left there in the first place?
but those two points aside. the imagery is excellent.

to starve beneath your ribs was clever and good. the 3rd stanza (which for me should be where the poem started) also worked really well in that it wove time, or should i say the lack of time, which is a major part of music into the guitar poem.

tracing with yout hands feels a bit hard to do. would 'eye' work better than 'hand' though it may be considered a little cliche.
would 'trebles' work better than 'treble notes'?

the last 2 stanza work, but i think they feel a bit forced. they feel off key with the rest of what i think is a good poem. jmo
thanks for the read.

opening the door to a friend’s house
we saw you,
Little Guitar,
sulking in the sunlight
of that tiny, aged, white room.

My friend creaking upstairs for her wallet,
I returned to you,

your mane of cobwebs
wrapping a head of pegs that turned
like the hands
of an unwound clock;

your hollow body
abandoned by vibration
and the spiders that called you home, only
to starve beneath your ribs.

I wondered
if this house
remembered your songs,

tracing, with my hand, the route
they would have glided through the room—

treble notes floating to the hallway mirror
watching themselves,
basses slogging around
the lower shelves
of the bookcase.

Their footprints I could almost see,
but before I could stir one string,
Jane had returned with the bus fare
and I could think
of no reason to stay

to convince her the house was no tomb,
but an audience, sentenced to the silence
of a song without a voice.