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Christopher James

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How I learnt the finger-picking style

I wanted shirts Bert Jansch,
with silver buttons bought
one at a time on Portobello Road.
I covered them in felt to tap softly
against the back of my guitar.

My fingers were too short;
I wanted the sort like Nick Drake’s,
which I could trail in a stream
until five minnows
suckled on each hand.

I wanted a girlfriend
like Bob Dylan’s on the cover
of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan
which I kept wrapped in its
original polythene in my room.

I wanted to twang like Davey Graham,
and play Anji faster than anyone,
I wanted to give a gypsy life to my strings;
to clawhammer and frail
until I’d blackened every nail.

I wanted a name like Loudon Wainwright III
and hair like Tim Buckley,
I rolled up on old copies of Solid Air.
I wanted to turn
an English folk balled into a ragga.

I wanted to play for keeps.
I wanted to play cross-legged
until I could no longer feel my feet.
I wanted to sleep on kafkan
and make a guitar sound like a cactus.

I dropped my bass notes
and worked on my alternating thumb.
I did not always get what I wanted.

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