Begging The Minstrels

Don’t play those songs for me that set me weeping,

Keep your lyrics locked inside yourself,

Don’t write the words that set my pulse to racing,

Hide them in some pages on a shelf.

Don’t pen the poignant notes that make me shiver

You’re strumming on my strings and take me higher,

Out beyond mere sound and softest downstrokes,

Way out somewhere where the air’s on fire,

Set to flame by rising pyrotechnics,

Your words and music, tone and then your voice,

They play upon my sweetest keys and whisper,

The music flows right through me, I’ve no choice

But to harken to the chords and let them wander

Deep into my soul and give them wing,

You play your words and music, I’m rapt listening,

Don’t stop, keep on, it hurts but let them sing.

Mere words alone can never do this damage,

It takes music set to rhythm, to a score,

Play on, you minstrels, poetry in love notes,

Melodies with muse, I beg for more.

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27 thoughts on “Begging The Minstrels”

    1. Sex? Where? Missed that! No, it’s official, you are a pervert. There is no sex here – well, not here, here – here, there, in the poem. Just your average lover of music. Does that count? Never had it off with an instrument. Well, not a musical one anyway. So, yeah, Perverts Are Us. Want the address?! 😉

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      1. OK, Trey. Reading it over myself again now through your eyes. I get it. I see it. I’m a bigger pervert than you obviously if there’s sex where unintended. I’ll keep that address if you don’t mind. :/ *mutter* bugger, back to PAU Anonymous

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      2. Read your poem like you didn’t write it, woman! I see sexual undertones!
        i.e.,
        1) “set my pulse to racing”
        2) ” that make me shiver”
        3) “strumming on my strings”
        4) “softest downstrokes”
        5) “air’s on fire”
        6) “They play upon my sweetest keys”
        7) ” flows right through me”
        8) “let them wander”
        9) “Deep into my soul ”
        10) “Don’t stop, keep on, it hurts…”
        11) “….set to rhythm”
        12) “I beg for more.”
        Now, don’t start screamimng about “taken out of context!” You know i’m not that good at understanding poetry, as hard as I try but, I’m telling you that this is what I saw when “I” read it. This is how it touched “me”. That is all.
        And you call me a pervert….
        You wrote the damng thing! LOL!
        Hey, but at least I’m reading them and trying to understand them! For over 2 years now!!!

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      3. I read it back over straight after your comment. I owned up. I am a pervert. And when I look at the list of phrases, sheesh! But, honest to gawd, I swear, I was writing about music! And I’ve not been here two years yet. I might not make it till then if I get locked up for wanton (unintentionally, I swear!) poems. Need to go for a scrub now. I feel dirty. :/ And I’m turning the feckin’ music off too! Bloody minstrels.

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  1. OMG! I just noticed something else…
    Look at my last comment and look at the sequence and progreesions of the words.
    It starts out with shivering, increases to strumming, then deep and frantic, then begging for more! Good lord, I need a cool bath and a cigar.

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    1. Holymotheragod, will you stop it already! It was about music! That’s how it gets me. And now I want a cigar. And my husband’s still bloody running round some godforsaken patch of Scotland. He’ll be knackered when he comes in. I’m going for a cold one too. Honest to gawd, some folk. I need to go and write another poem. I’ve no idea what this one will be about. Showers maybe. Cigars. Feck.

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      1. Never liked him. He’s obssessed. I might do one about Bob Dylan though. It’s his bloody fault. And yours. And maybe a bit of mine. Deep down. In the dark recesses of my psyche where words and sex are intertwined in sensual splendour, cavorting through fields of undulating grassland amid poppies wafting in the breeze, waiting to be plucked. What’s his phone number? Oh, he’s dead, innit? Too bad. Might have learned something there. Or not. I’ll try Jung instead. More my cuppa. Hot and steamy. As it comes, no sugar. In a mug. And you’ll make something of that, no doubt.

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      2. Exactly! This whole conversation is down to you. I’m innocent. I was minding my own business, singing along, enjoying a bit of Bob, a touch of Neil, swaying along to a piece of Prince. Doing nothing. Blame the I-pod. You led me on. And I fell for it. Shame on you. Imagine, indeed. Jung can go home with Freud. My state of mind is not in question. I’m a mum, forgawdsakes!

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    1. Phew! Does that let both of us off then? Yoohoo, Treeeey, we’re not perverts. Well, I’m not anyway. I’ll let Trey speak for himself. 😉 Cheers, Paul. I was getting worried there for a tick. 🙂

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    1. Between you and me, Rene, Trey’s a bit of a pervert. Sees sex in every poem. It’s all the imagery , you know. And his imagination. Absolutely heehaw to do with mine. I mean, I read it over and I see his point and all that but I was writing about music! Honest to god. But then, music is pretty sexy so you never know I suppose. :/

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  2. I first saw love of art, music and lyrics my dear and you do know I like the sensual verse more than now and then…so yes, I suppose you could interpret it as Trey has…indeed…but is not sex poetry in motion as well?

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    1. It sure is. From one end of the earth to the other. It’s wonderful to think that, actually – that music, art, poetry, sex, all sorts of creativity is universally loved and enjoyed. I was going to wink there but it’s true, so I won’t. That sort of commonality really should be the basis for an understanding too often sadly lacking. That’s it. We all need to draw more, write more, dance more, sing more. And, of course, love more.

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