christopher james

Poems and prattle

Tag: guitar

My new LP

retro-vinyl-record

I’ve now recorded ten original acoustic pieces, which sounds to me like an album. So without the need to speak to a record company, trouble your wallet or visit iTunes, here’s the full album. Just press to play.

If you would like to buy my latest poetry collection England Underwater in exchange for this outrageous free gift, then please go right ahead!

Spring in Catalonia

My wife and I had a beautiful honeymoon in Barcelona, visiting Gaudi’s astounding cathedral, the Basilica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Familia; running up to the Olympic Stadium, getting burnt on the beach, getting burnt on the open top bus and getting lost on the Metro. I started thinking about it again when I reading George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia.

Orwell

Fortunately we were there in happier circumstances than George, but it’s a wonderful book none the less.  My tune is in DADGAD all you guitar players.

Catalonia

Polly’s Tune

What can a dad give to his daughter – apart from money, books, clothes, iPads, love and attention? In this case, I can give her a tune of her own, which I composed this morning on the guitar in the open tuning BGDGAD.

Polly's Tune

 

Starling Wonder

I wrote a poem about a long lost Beatles album and had to think of names for the songs; there were things like The Party At The Centre Of the Earth and Carnaby Streetlights. There was also one called Starling Wonder which might have sounded like this. The tuning is BGDGAD with a capo on the fifth fret.

starling murmurations taken at RSPB Minsmere nature reserve in Suffolk. @RSPB

 

The Sultans of Spring

We made a discovery of some unusually flamboyant scarecrows in an allotment in Corpusty, North Norfolk. All are dressed in rather nice old suits, with shiny buttons and bottle-top badges. Every so often a new character appears, in this case a guitar-playing gentleman.

Scarecrow guitar

SINGING THE GREENS

The scarecrow
with the chicken-wire guitar
sing the greens.
In an old suit
by allotment gates,
he plays Leadbelly
to the parsnips;
Blind Lemon Jefferson
to the peas.
A briar pipe at his lips
he sounds root notes
and juicy sevenths,
grass bursting
from his shoes.
An iron bolt for a nose;
pearl-button eyes,
the sparrows hang
on his every word.
He does string bends
for string beans;
vibratos for potatoes.
Behind him,
the wild garlic swoons
as he does his thing,
while the cabbages sway
to his songs of spring.