Jerry Ferraz


Jerry Ferraz The word Guitar derives from the sanskrit word gita meaning song. e.g. The Bhagahavid Gita is the "song of God".
The gypsies hail originally from India and they were called, in Europe, Gitanos. Gitanes (like the french cigarettes) etc, in other words "singers"and they played guitars. The structure of the guitar evolved from the North African oud (meaning branch of wood) which the Moors brought to Spain. (hence, the idea that the word gypsy is a corruption of E-gyptian) The word lute is a slur of the words la oud or li oud and from the lute they fashioned the guitar.
Also sitar is from sita meaning love. She was the wife of Rama in the Indian epic poem, The Ramayana. So guitar is "singer" and sitar is "lover

This is my dear companion
I used to take him everywhere I go
Alas, his poor old wooden head
It was always slightly out of tune
Like a moon
When it is almost full
His strains were somehow uncomplete
Yet like the moon's unstrummed
deaf and dumb condition
He was light
And perfect for the road
Ever at hand to cheer me on my way
One night I plucked
The wild wine-colored rose
And the strutting spider's thread lie broken
And dreaming only of my guitarra's shape
I saw my love
Who lies beyond the sea
Oh, the gypsy
He cannot cross the water
For he fears the Duende
The fire in his blood will escape!
So like a bandit who has stolen my affections
The ghost of my guitarra sits in my lap
And vainly serenades another
And yet another empty glass
Ah, guitarra, guitarra
Virtuoso amor!
You alone
You were the last of your kind
Did we not say with one voice
How could I have refused the gift
Which only God may give
Sweet Youth!
Sa ha ido con Dios
(it is gone with God)
Oh, how the bones in my fingers ache
But sometimes
When there is no one left to listen
And the barren moon
Like a waning memory
Repeats her tragic steps
Her fabled fiery dance
Across my lonesome little balcony
Faintly...faintly...who sings?
For though these eyes can no longer see
My heart, secretly
Flies out and tells me
That the world is still
Very beautiful
And that I too was an instrument
Of God's holy abandon
And to remember this
I take up the cross of my companion
once again
And wander the streets of our beloved
San Francisco
And when the spirit moves
And where the spirits please
I pour out my song on some chance
Blood-red rose
Nailed to these exquisite airs
And the Duende weeping whispers

©Jerry Ferraz

On the 1st and 3rd Monday of each month Jerry Ferraz & Kim Shuck
co-host the Poetry reading & open mic at Bird and Beckett Books & Records in San Francisco.

Jerry Ferraz
photo by Nicole Savage
The wandering Troubador trudges on through the dense fog of contemporary policitical high jinx and cosmic malaise leading us back to the pure fount
of neo-classical animism and blind faith through song and
experimental flights of musical inspiration
we here designate

"Jerry Ferraz sings without even singing" ...Jack Micheline



North Beach with Friends
Cafe Trieste with friends



Jerry Ferraz POETRY
Zen Fable For Philip Whalen Roshi
Pietá for Tony Vaughan
Love Ad Infinitum for Nicole
Satori in Spring
Slow Train Wreck
Dharma Dream Walk

Paintings by Jerry Ferraz

Paintings by Jerry Ferraz 2

Jerry FerrazJerry Ferraz was born and grew up over in Eureka Valley some years ago, let’s say in the early 1950s, round about this time of year… a San Franciscan to the core… though a much broader expanse of time and geography reverberates through him…

Through the years, he’s recited his winding and enigmatic fables in verse and sung his lovely flamenco inflected songs in the cafes and bars, at the bus stops and construction sites, in the parks… trading in the poetic coin of the realm of philosophers and seers.  There really are precious few like him, and they’re scattered like jewels over centuries of tradition, across the seas and the continents.  He’s a poet for the ages, and we’re not hesitant to characterize him thus.  After ten-plus years of Bird & Beckett poetry readings, and five and a half decades of rambling the streets in this most beautiful of cities with a long succession of small, festooned guitars (the ones stickered with images and evocative phrases… “poets are good with their tongues”), Jerry rolls along…  Join us to raise a glass of good red wine to a true wearer of the troubadour’s mantel.

photo by Nicole Savage

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