LITERATURE

Our Resident Poet and Ballad Writer, Bob Baskerville, contributes regularly, especially during SEGE retreats or other special occasions.

This ballad was written to celebrate the 10th anniversary of the Bellevue Classical Guitar Open Mic, in 2017.

OPEN MIC SONG

You play your guitar in the bathroomAfter dark when there’s no one around,Your fingers fly over the rosewoodAnd you make the most marvelous sound.Refrain:You make the most marvelous sound,You make the most marvelous sound.Your fingers fly over the rosewood And you make the most marvelous sound.
You think that you might be Romero,You feel that you sound just like Bream,But when morning dawns dark, dank and dreary,You know that it’s only a dream.Refrain
Because when you play for the public,Your forehead breaks out in the sweats,Your fingers turn into spaghettiAnd your fingertips find the wrong frets.Refrain
The critical neural connectionsThat run from your brain to your nailsSend garbled confusing directionsYour train of thought runs off the rails.Refrain
Seeking a cure for this illnessYou schedule and hour with your shrinkAfter asking the usual questions,She frowns and your hopes start to sink.Refrain
What you have is a morbid conditionBut you’re lucky that there is a cureRequiring a series of treatmentsEvery month for each calendar year.Refrain
There’s a cure for this dire diagnosis,You can take it as much as you like.It will probably cure your psychosis.The treatment is called OPEN MIC.Refrain
[Scott plays a verse a la Bach]
And then on a Thursday in AprilYou pack up your Blackwell and stoolYou take yourself down to the Carlyle And hope that you won’t seem a fool.Refrain
After the usual handshakes, You pull up a chair by the fire,Someone hands you a tumbler of vinoAnd your straits do not seem quite so dire.Refrain
There’s Nancy and Didi and Emil,And Evelyn, Carlo and Scott,There’s Naim and Cathlyn and MatthewAll waiting to show what they’ve got.Refrain
There’s Russell and Reuben and Carlo,And Jessica, Lawrence and Tan,There’s Robert Vierschilling and Stella,All ready to play until dawn.Refrain
You listen politely for hours,To Tarrega, Brower and Sor,To Barrios, Mertz and Carulli,You think you can’t take any more.Refrain
But then there’s a gap in the music,And striving to strike the right note,And summoning all of your courage,You seize your guitar by the throat.Refrain
You stride to the front of the venue,For now there are friends all around,You tune up the Blackwell and then you,Produce an acceptable sound.Refrain
[Matt plays a verse tremolo in the style of Tarrega]
No longer afraid of performing,You thank your alignment of stars,And consider your happy condition,Surrounded by classic guitars.Refrain [two more refrains to phase out]

The following poem was written in response to an episode at the SEGE retreat in 2018, in which a ring was lost and then found. The text is a mixture of accurate recall and total fantasy.

RING OF SEGE
Matt would have asked for Cathlyn’s hand,But he didn’t have bread for the stone.He pawned his guitar at the local bazaarAnd petitioned the bank for a loan.But whatever he’d hock, not enough for a rockAnd no matter whatever he sold,There was only enough of the coveted stuffFor a beautiful ringlet of gold, of gold,For a classical ringlet of gold.
He purchased the gift without thinking of thriftAnd exhausted most all of his money.Now he needed a place to be face-to-faceTo present the gold band to his honey.It couldn’t be pricey, the decision was dicey,A parlour where pizza is sold.He bought her a slice and then in a triceHe proffered the ringlet of gold, of gold,The beautiful ringlet of gold.
He got down on one knee and rendered his pleaAnd offered the ring to his dear.She swallowed her pie and let out a sighAnd took a small sip of her beer.Not making him guess, she quickly said yes.Matt suddenly felt very bold.He didn’t linger and placed on her fingerThe beautiful ringlet of gold, of gold,The genuine ringlet of gold.
Matt and Cathlyn set their sailsOn the turbulent ocean of life.No matter the weather, always together,They bonded as husband and wife.It wasn’t a tether that bound them togetherThrough danger, through heat and through coldThe symbol of love that fit like a glove,Was the beautiful ringlet of gold, of goldThe bona fide ringlet of gold.
Matt and Cathlyn had three sonsAnd numerous blessings to bootEach attained high degree: PhD and MDAnd several guitars and a flute.Looking up at the stars they played their guitarsAnd sang a sweet song as they strolledAnd Matt squeezed the hand with the coveted band,With the beautiful ringlet of gold, of goldWith the unalloyed ringlet of gold.
Matt and Cathlyn founded a troupe:An octet of seven guitars.They played Renaissance, Baroque and Romance,Which made up their deep repertoires.On the birthday of Bach, they ignored modern schlock,And played a sweet suite for the fold.As Cat fingered her flute, preparing to tootThe sun flashed on the ringlet of gold, of gold,The sparkling ringlet of gold.
Cathlyn and Matt took the troupe on retreatTo a mystical manse by the lakeTo trim off the schmalz from a Tchaikovsky waltzThey practiced till time for a break.Cathlyn placed the gold band on the prong of her stand,Confident that the bracket would hold,But forgot to retrieve it, did carelessly leave it, The beautiful ringlet of gold, of goldThe elegant ringlet of gold.
The troupe reassembled at half past fourAnd set up their scores on the stands.With sonorous “pings” they tuned up their stringsAnd buffed up the nails on their hands,But on checking her digit, Cathlyn started to fidgetAnd her face was a sight to behold.It started to dawn, something was gone:The beautiful ringlet of gold, of gold,The beautiful ringlet of gold.
Now the loss of a ring might seem a small thingTo a man from the country of GurWho had lost a whole nation through corrupt arbitrationThough even this outcome’s obscure.But to Cathlyn and Matt, it was much more than that,Catastrophic, the truth must be toldFor this loss could disparage the symbol of marriageThe beautiful ringlet of gold, of gold,The critical ringlet of gold.
The troupe gathered traction and sprang into actionAnd tore up the rug from the floor,Getting down in a crouch, they looked under the couchFor this was a serious chore.And then, if you please, on their hands and their kneesThey scratched in the dust and the moldAll without speaking, just searching and seekingThe beautiful ringlet of gold, of gold,The wonderful ringlet of gold.
Matt is now in a sweat, Cathlyn wouldn’t forgetIf the badge of their love disappeared.She might blame him, he thought, even though she should notBut it could be his blunder he feared.He seemed to recall, if it happened at all,That the ring from the stand might have rolledBecause during the break, did he just by mistakeLose the beautiful ringlet of gold, of goldThe critical ringlet of gold.
Just like Agatha Christie, the troupe had a mysteryAnd who in the room could decode it?Where were Holmes or Poirot when we needed them so?The troupe was depressed and they showed it.But one of the train could unravel the skeinAnd he stood in the hall and he toldAll the troupe that he now had the scoop On the beautiful ringlet of gold, of gold,The disappeared ringlet of gold.
We all should have thought that it would have been ScottWho deserved the ensemble’s applause.He explained to us all how the ringlet did fall On the staircase when during the pauseA figure anonymous whose name was synonymousWith Cathlyn’s had the stand in a holdInadvertenly flipped and the ringlet had slipped,The beautiful ringlet of gold, of gold,The slippery ringlet of gold.
Matt and Cathlyn renewed their vows In the front vestibule of the house.Matt got down on one knee and entered his pleaAnd proffered the ring to his spouse.He offered his thanks to the ensemble ranks And especially to one of their lot.For the end of this story, an assignment of glory:An Englishman saved by a Scott, a ScottAn Englishman saved by a Scott.

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