SAN FRANCISCO POETS

Jerry Ferraz

Guitarra

The word Guitar derives from the sanskrit word gita meaning song. e.g. The Bhagahavid Gita is the "song of God". The gypsies hail originally from India and they were called, in Europe, Gitanos. Gitanes (like the french cigarettes) etc, in other words "singers"and they played guitars. The structure of the guitar evolved from the North African oud (meaning branch of wood) which the Moors brought to Spain. (hence, the idea that the word gypsy is a corruption of E-gyptian) The word lute is a slur of the words la oud or li oud and from the lute they fashioned the guitar. Also sitar is from sita meaning love. She was the wife of Rama in the Indian epic poem, The Ramayana. So guitar is "singer" and sitar is "lover

This is my dear companion I used to take him everywhere I go Alas, his poor old wooden head It was always slightly out of tune Like a moon When it is almost full His strains were somehow uncomplete Yet like the moon's unstrummed deaf and dumb condition He was light And perfect for the road Ever at hand to cheer me on my way One night I plucked The wild wine-colored rose And the strutting spider's thread lie broken And dreaming only of my guitarra's shape I saw my love Who lies beyond the sea Oh, the gypsy He cannot cross the water For he fears the Duende The fire in his blood will escape! So like a bandit who has stolen my affections The ghost of my guitarra sits in my lap And vainly serenades another And yet another empty glass Ah, guitarra, guitarra Virtuoso amor! You alone You were the last of your kind Did we not say with one voice "Vamanos!" How could I have refused the gift Which only God may give Sweet Youth! Adios! Sa ha ido con Dios (it is gone with God) Oh, how the bones in my fingers ache But sometimes When there is no one left to listen And the barren moon Like a waning memory Repeats her tragic steps Her fabled fiery dance Across my lonesome little balcony Faintly...faintly...who sings? For though these eyes can no longer see My heart, secretly Flies out and tells me That the world is still Very beautiful And that I too was an instrument Of God's holy abandon And to remember this I take up the cross of my companion once again And wander the streets of our beloved San Francisco And when the spirit moves And where the spirits please I pour out my song on some chance Blood-red rose Nailed to these exquisite airs And the Duende weeping whispers Bravo! ©Jerry Ferraz On the 1st and 3rd Monday of each month Jerry Ferraz & Kim Shuck co-host the Poetry reading & open mic at Bird and Beckett Books & Records in San Francisco.

photo by Nicole Savage The wandering Troubador trudges on through the dense fog of contemporary policitical high jinx and cosmic malaise leading us back to the pure fount of neo-classical animism and blind faith through song and experimental flights of musical inspiration we here designate "tru-bop" "Jerry Ferraz sings without even singing" ...Jack Micheline     Cafe Trieste with friends     POETRY GUITARRA Zen Fable For Philip Whalen Roshi Pietá for Tony Vaughan Love Ad Infinitum for Nicole Satori in Spring Slow Train Wreck Dharma Dream Walk Paintings by Jerry Ferraz Paintings by Jerry Ferraz 2

Jerry Ferraz was born and grew up over in Eureka Valley some years ago, let’s say in the early 1950s, round about this time of year… a San Franciscan to the core… though a much broader expanse of time and geography reverberates through him… Through the years, he’s recited his winding and enigmatic fables in verse and sung his lovely flamenco inflected songs in the cafes and bars, at the bus stops and construction sites, in the parks… trading in the poetic coin of the realm of philosophers and seers.  There really are precious few like him, and they’re scattered like jewels over centuries of tradition, across the seas and the continents.  He’s a poet for the ages, and we’re not hesitant to characterize him thus.  After ten-plus years of Bird & Beckett poetry readings, and five and a half decades of rambling the streets in this most beautiful of cities with a long succession of small, festooned guitars (the ones stickered with images and evocative phrases… “poets are good with their tongues”), Jerry rolls along…  Join us to raise a glass of good red wine to a true wearer of the troubadour’s mantel. photo by Nicole Savage

Website created by S.F.Heart©1997 -   2024 all rights reserved.
All products and company names mentioned herein are the trademarks of their respective owners.