Poetry Inspired
by Ronald Radford's Performance
An
Interesting Phenomena
Occasionally
after a performance an audience member will present Mr.
Radford with a poem which they say they were inspired to
write, some spontaneously written on the back of a
program, and some mailed to him later.Ron treasures these
more than any of the 'official' rave reviews. These poems
come from the hearts of ordinary people who were touched
by his music and then compelled to their own act of
creative art - writing a poem. Here he shares a few of
his favorites.
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Fourteen Years
Later
By David McDonald
(by
email)
Dear Mr. Radford, I had the pleasure of being
"dragged" to a concert you did in the fall of
1989 for the Hispanic Student Association at
the University of Oklahoma. At the time, I was
a stuck up college brat studying vocal music
education. My college roommate was a classical
guitarist who thought he might have an idea
what was in store. What we saw was almost
beyond comprehension. In my musical career, I
have been blessed to see numerous incredible
concerts. Many friends ask me, "Which one was
the best?" Although I'll tell them what it was
like to see the likes of Elton John, Isaac
Stern, and Luciano Pavarotti, I've always told
them there was nothing more magical than a
night in a lecture hall with you. In academia,
there often exists an attitude that anything
not purely classical is less than worthy of
serious study. You taught me to value something
in music that I'd always valued previously in
life: All the world's people have something
incredible to
say.
Now, there isn't a single
form of art I don't relish, as long as it's
done well. You're absolutely right. I'm a human
first and a classical musician second. Since
I'm told the best way to thank you is with
poetry, if I can even express a quarter of the
thanks I feel I'll be
happy.
At
eighteen, I walked in, and quietly took my
space
Way in the
back, though there wasn't a
lack
Of
seats in this lecture hall
place.
People
came after, with curious laughter, from
around the institution.
We had
to see, what was to be
Of the
music from a Tulsa
Andalusian.
He came
on stage, talked like a sage, while
explaining the evening's
program
His
fingers raged, our ears
engaged
And we
watched between notes Gypsy
slams
In
fourteen years, I never hear, anything
quite so keen
As when
he said, 'fore out we're
lead
"What
you felt, you had to
bring."
Since
that time, when I felt sublime, as I
heard the evening's last
chord
I sit
and wonder, and think about
thunder
From the strings played by
Ronald Radford.
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Oda al
Maestro
By
Ricardo Santos
Silva
Sus
manos son alas que trasportan el
sentimiento,
Sentimiento del
Alma, que trasladan del llanto
Al canto y del
canto a la alegría.
Sientes el
palpitar del acorde de las notas de tu
amante,
Que te siegue por
doquiera por el universo entero.
Esa amante que te
acompaña, esa amante es la
guitarra...
(English
Translation)
Your hands are wings which
transport the feelings,
The
feelings from the Soul, which transform
from the
lament
To
the song and from the song to
joy.
You
feel the heartbeat of the rhythm of the
notes of your beloved,
This
follows you everywhere throughout the
entire universe.
This beloved which goes
with you, this beloved, is your
guitar.
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Soul
Song
By Steve
Hinrichs
Gypsy memories -
whirling,
swirling
Yearn
to be.
Plaintive, mystical tone
of faraway haunts
Speaks with
me.
Indwelling Presence,
unfaltering Love,
Encompass us in the way.
Ah, home at last,
Soul
sings free.
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To Ron Radford, Flamenco
Guitarist
By Jess
Matlack
(Lines written several
miles above Denver, already a mile
high)
Once above a
time
A tall man in
white
Sat before
us,
Poised (one
foot on a stool, like a honky
bootblack, waiting for
work).
What he
held
Was not a
guitar
It was a new
born child.
All were hushed
by the strum less
silence.
But no music
came
Only words,
like lasers
(I even saw two
-- maybe three -- tears in the
seat next to
me).
"Finally!"
(Said a small boy, almost ready
to leave)
He caressed the
baby:
What echoed was
not
(Ole can you
see, by the Spanish
moonlight...?)
What climbed
was not
(As one Texan
said, "There's a cottin' pickin'
wet-back gypsy in
there
Trying' to get
out!")
What surged was
not
(Even
Malaguena, or Jose in staccato
stilletoes)
What rose (by
any other
name)
Was (somewhere
in Warsaw, by a fountain, a foot
taps)
Quite
unsheathed from
reality:
It
was
The language
(and in Phenom Phen, another baby
sings)
Of
soul.
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Bulerias in Butler
Library
By Jim
Feely
Most of us sat
stiffly
In
the Cardy Reading Room,
Chaired,
On
the soft green carpet
Under
the Gothic points,
Coated
with arms
In
Victoria's, domain
Hands,
holding hands, or
elbows
Or
chins:
Soft,
veined, boney, muscled,
Stuccatoed
with brown
Waited
to applaud for
flamenco.
To
the rhythm of flamenco
The
bright violets on the window
ledges
Strummed
away
The
cloud gray gloom of the
afternoon,
And
hands clapped loudly for
flamenco.
Across
the library in another
hall
Sharp
noses
Digging
into long
Boxes
of cards
Pointed
- to the rhythm of
flamenco
It
all began when Victoria
At
three
Went
up to her grandfather
Clock
And stopped the time.
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Snow
Songs
By Lark
H.
Are you
enchanted?
Your
guitar dings silence
softly.
Eloquent
words of
silence.
Snow
forest songs for eternity and the
cosmos.
Slipping
into divine
rapture,
The
rush of falling
water,
The
circles in a
mirror,
I
listen,
content
To hear
the muffled blowing of the
stars
in a
white sky across the deep
meadow.
I
experience melancholy, joyous
refrains.
Your guitar sings snow songs
in
silence.
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Alegory
By
Rise
Gilbert
You surrendered at
last...
To Me... to God...
(Lightning and
thunder)
The Lord with
omnipotent wisdom...
Gave you the
power of archangel in charge... Of celestial
music...
On His
Terrestrial planet
(Lightening and
thunder)
Mortal men do not
comprehend...
That your music
has the Sublime timber of the sacred
(Lightning and
thunder)
Centuries...
Master spirits...
Angels...
Truth...
Surrender... have
given you
The power o f
David, the strength of Moses.
(Lightning
and thunder)
Mortal men only
comprehend
Instants of
intoxication
(lightning and
thunder)
Gentleness of the
harp...
Caress of the
cello, vibrating
Strings...
Incomprehensible
terrors in presence
Of the pure...
all powerful...
You surrendered
at last... To Me… To
God.
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