Tuesday, February 5, 2019

Of Song



Of Song

on a
night of February
torrents and squalls
I sat vigil, ear to the
radio
            a songwriter
pooled his lyrics
stark admissions
of what estranges, in
stereo, it
felt like
thousand s of
fingers moving through
me      
            as he described
the advantages of what
plagued turning
into art
the fire
he brought was beautiful
with no mind of the cost
to his awareness
                        and then it
befell me how we
respond
rocking and rolling
up and down amid pulsing
crowds of warm beer cups
bellowing
            a songwriter’s
words back in fast-paced
glossed-over empathy
in unison
the kind of compliment that
            might drag a hero to
hell
            night after night after
night

***

It was something that struck me. Thinking of someone writing their inner-most thoughts down on a piece of paper, inside of a notebook, on a bar napkin or the flap of a cigarette package.  It hit me, an artist culling all of their demons in to put expel them in song.  
I have great respect for artists who do this, in any medium. But, those who climb up on a stage and bleed for us, with us, are extraordinary.

This poem is a direct reaction to the wonder of what it must be like to be laid bare for the world, your soul wide open to a room full of people. What’s it like when those looking up and singing back at you identify? What’s it like when they don’t? What’s it like when you hear a million hurts being sung back to you? What’s it like to have them fall on deaf ears? I wonder. I wonder. I wonder.

I love songwriters. I admire their candor. I hurt because they have, rejoice when they overcome, and appreciate that I can find myself in their works. Music is medicine, it saves – the songwriter, the listener. Its catharsis, therapy, healing.

A little Teapot update to tide me (maybe even you) over until I’m finished a new piece of short fiction.

In propinquity,
Nic



1 comment:

  1. I couldn't have said this any better myself, Nic. I probably admire songwriters more than any other artist because, as you say, they lay themselves bare not once, but at every gig. Poets are equally revered because they, too, put their souls on paper, but it's not quite as public as performing.

    I like to watch the singer's face when a ballad they wrote is sung back to them. It must be startling and humbling and invigorating all at once.

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