Lean your body forward slightly to support the guitar against

Andrés Segovia, the great master who lifted the guitar from the tavern to the concert hall, once spoke these words: “Lean your body forward slightly to support the guitar against your chest, for the poetry of the music should resound in your heart.” In this saying lies not only an instruction in posture, but a philosophy of life and art. For Segovia was teaching more than how to hold an instrument; he was teaching how to hold the soul, how to let music move from the body into the spirit, and from the spirit back into the world.

To lean the body forward is an act of devotion. It is as though the musician bows before the instrument, not in submission but in reverence. The guitar is not a tool to be mastered by force, but a companion to be embraced with tenderness. Against the chest it rests, near the beating of the heart, so that the vibrations of string and the pulse of life may join together. Segovia reminds us that true music cannot be separated from the inner being of the one who plays—it must be felt, lived, and carried within.

The mention of poetry is no accident. Segovia knew that the guitar, when played with sincerity, becomes more than sound—it becomes language, emotion, vision. Poetry is the art of making words sing, and music is the art of making sound speak. Both reveal the soul. To play with mere technique is to produce noise; to play with the heart is to create poetry. Thus he instructed his students not only to master scales and chords, but to lean into the instrument until their very lives flowed into it, until the heart itself resounded in every note.

History bears witness to the truth of his teaching. When Segovia first carried the guitar into the classical concert halls of Europe, many scoffed. They saw it as an instrument of peasants, incapable of greatness. But Segovia did not fight them with words; he fought with the poetry of music. He leaned into his guitar, he gave his heart to its strings, and in doing so he conquered not by argument but by resonance. Audiences who had doubted soon wept, for the guitar no longer seemed small or rustic—it had become the voice of the human spirit.

Yet this wisdom extends far beyond music. Whatever your craft may be, you must lean into it with your whole being. A writer who keeps his heart distant will write lifeless words. A teacher who speaks only from the mouth and not the soul will inspire no one. A leader who governs without the warmth of humanity will build no loyalty. The true power of any endeavor comes when you press it close to your chest, when you allow its poetry to resound in your heart.

The meaning of Segovia’s words is therefore both tender and heroic. He calls us to approach our work not coldly, not distantly, but intimately, as one embraces a beloved. The act of leaning forward shows commitment, focus, and love. The result is that whatever you create—be it music, art, labor, or life itself—will not be hollow, but filled with the echo of the soul.

For us who hear this teaching today, the lesson is clear: whatever you do, do it with your whole heart. Lean into your instrument, your craft, your calling. Do not stand aloof, but embrace it, carry it close, and let it speak through you. Practical steps follow: give time to your craft daily, not as duty but as devotion; allow yourself to feel what you create before you share it; and remember that technique without soul is empty, but technique joined with heart is timeless.

Thus Segovia’s words endure: “Lean your body forward slightly to support the guitar against your chest, for the poetry of the music should resound in your heart.” Take them as more than instruction for musicians—take them as guidance for living. Whatever you hold in your hands, hold it close, and let its song echo within you. For only then will your work become more than labor—it will become poetry, and poetry will become life.