I am a protector who sits on a bridge. Only one person can see through me, while others cannot. What am I?

Powered by the swirling air, my arms spin slowly upon my face. Their motion makes my gut churn, And in turn, people use that to crush.

A pool of black, for writer or hack, To pour their imagination. Without a feather, to draw me fourth, I stay stoppered in stagnation.

Take a musical instrument that is the embodiment of creating calm and beautiful environments with its softly-plucked strings. Now take an over-the-top form of satire that mocks someone or something. Take these two things that make people smile and laugh and merge them together to naturally get me, a weapon for hunting whales.

I have a bowl but cannot hold water alone, I sit in your kitchen but am not a throne. You use me daily to eat your meal. What am I?