Those strings are on fire

Here’s a poem for you about a guitar. If you’re a guitar person, you will understand the significance of that special guitar in your life. The one that has the most songs in it, the one that has the best feel in your hands, in your fingers, the one that fits best for the time you’re together. The guitar you come back to, even when a new one tempts you away.

And it you’re not a guitar person, you still, I’m guessing, have that thing – that inanimate object that holds a piece of you more than any other. Memories, I think, but more than memories too. A sense of place, of time, of self.

The guitar in this poem is no longer with me. I lost it in a fire, which is a violent way to lose something precious. (I am very aware of my good fortune, living in a place which is – at time of writing, anyway – not subject to bombings and other human-made destruction. I know I’m one of the lucky ones.) There was a fire in the school I worked in and every thing was lost to its flames, my guitar included. It had been with me a long time. It was no longer in brilliant shape, although it still sounded good. A couple of the tuning pegs were loose and kept falling off. I had one of them in a drawer at home in case it got lost; it was the only part of it that survived.

No strings

In that old flat, top of the tenement window 
To the green and a shadow of Arthur’s Seat
When you came to me, in your hard case for flying – 
Which you never did – glossy and new and saved for, we sat
Many hours together, far longer than that difficult relationship 
Was ever going to last, writing songs and staying
In tune

Both of us on stage, later: me blinking, you flashing in
The lights. We shone, you and I, back then –
Fearless, I was, with you in front of me, bold

And on the train to London, you came with me, our
Double act on tour, you whispered, when I felt
Scared and wordless. You kept your nerve and 
Your high E still in tune

Years later, both of us a little bruised – but wiser –
We came back up that road, your pegs (and mine) a
Little loose, your varnish (and mine) a little chipped
In places
And though you weren’t the new one any more, you
Stayed with me, playing songs for children, sleeping
Your nights in a classroom cupboard, reminding us both
Of all those times we’d held those chords and filled
Those stages: more like dreams to us now

And when the fire took hold and I raced out,
Watching, across the playground as the ceiling fell, 
Noticing how transparent the flames were in that orange daylight
Telling myself how pointless it was to wish I’d run back in
To grab you from that cupboard – to save you – that I’d 
Followed the rules and left property behind
That it must have been your time and I shouldn’t
Stand there, imagining your strings snapping in the
Heat, your body cracking and finally silent, 
Nobody’s property but a star

We shone there, you and I, though, didn’t we?
Me blinking and you flashing in the lights