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
