poetry

Three Songs in Three Weeks

October 29, 2022 — Leave a comment

I have actually written a song each of the last three weeks but didn’t get around to putting them on the blog each week. So here’s a catchup post.

Week 41: An acquaintance was in ICU with COVID the week before I wrote this song. Her husband left her phone with her at the hospital, hoping she would wake and call him. He texted me Sunday afternoon that she had finally woken up and called. I was so touched thinking about that moment, and it (along with the week’s prompt of “too soon”) inspired this song.

Sunday afternoon she woke up
Rolled her body over
Picked up the phone and called to talk to him

Not a moment too soon
This is the right time
No turning back now
Everything unwinds

In the dusky light I heard them
Lovely hungry birds in
Trees where my hands had laid their table out

Not a moment too soon . . .

You there staring at the mirror
Shedding weary tears for
the years that have turned and walked out of your life

Not a moment too soon . . .

Human
you’ve been
waiting
too hard

Breathe now, feel your body slow down
Feel the trees below ground
Reaching their roots to feed their leafy crowns

Not a moment comes too soon
This is the right time
No turning back now
Everything unwinds

Week 42: A poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, published in 1918. The video features a ceramic candleholder made by my talented niece Eva.

I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the morning:
The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a finger-nail held to the candle,
Or paring of paradisaïcal fruit, lovely in waning but lustreless,
Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of dark Maenefa the mountain;
A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, entangled him, not quit utterly.
This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, presented so easily,
Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of slumber.

Week 43: Do you name your cars? We do. Our oldest car (randomly dubbed Joe Bryanson by my then-nine-year-old son) deserved a special tribute this week because poor Joe has been through a lot, including getting mugged last week. Bonus track is a voice memo my co-pilot Nathan sent me today, I think he’s working on his own ballad for Joe. You’ll have to watch the video to see/hear the bonus track and maybe understand the depths of Joe’s despair.

I started out in Colorado
in the mountains carrying a
treasure of a woman to a
job she didn’t love
She left me in the foothills with a
Big crack in my windshield and I
Sat there being hopeful I could
still be of some use

I am Joe Bryanson
I’ve been around the block
Mile after mile I have run
I don’t drink much, I’ve got a hitch
I’m such a dream to park
Count on me to get the job done

A couple came from Loveland and they
Laid their money down and made
Me their one and only
And got that big crack fixed
And then a few years later we
Drove across the Great Plains and they
Parked me in a driveway in a
City on the river

I am Joe Bryanson . . .

Soon enough I had to share that
Driveway with a minivan and
Then they turned me over to a
Newly licensed kid
They kicked me to the curb because they
Went and bought a third car that they
Plugged in like a toaster
And babied like a baby

I am Joe Bryanson . . .
But that kid became a treasure of a woman
And she played my radio loud
On her drive to her first job that she just loved
And I felt so young again

But life out on the street, well it’s no
Asphalt bed of ease, I’ve had my
Mirror cracked, my side swiped, I’ve been
Robbed of precious metals
I’m getting near three hundred thousand
Miles and I don’t know just how much
Farther they might let me go
But I just keep on truckin’

I am Joe Bryanson . . .

Young and Old

June 10, 2022 — Leave a comment

Short and sweet (or bittersweet?) this week – an old poem by Charles Kingsley that lent itself very well to a folk song vibe.

When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when all was young.

Weeks 8 and 7

February 25, 2022 — 5 Comments

Still getting in the groove of writing and recording a song each week while now working a day job every weekday. This week I started several song ideas and just couldn’t land anything I was happy with, so I turned to my list of poems I’d like to songify, and this one by Emily Dickinson fit the bill. I think it’s the third of hers I’ve set to music now.

Also, I didn’t post yet about last week’s song, so here it is below. The suggested prompt was “kaleidoscope dreams” and I had fun writing a short rompy song with it, but probably nothing I’ll ever do much more with.

The Tyger (William Blake poem set to music)

January 14, 2022 — Leave a comment

Well here I go making another cat video! It might be my way of dealing with the fact that I love cats but my beloved partner is allergic and so it’s best for us not to have one in our house.

I’ve always loved this William Blake poem and have tried a couple previous times to set it to music. This week I succeeded (in my estimation). Would be so fun to have Nathan (the aforementioned allergy sufferer) add a wall of guitars but his (non-music) work life has gotten busier so he doesn’t often have the time.

So I used this little hack he taught me – I recorded my acoustic guitar onto two separate tracks – one from a condenser microphone for the acoustic sound, and one from a line plugged into the guitar. I then added my recording software’s default electric amp sound to the guitar line track, which gave me an electric guitar sound to mix along with the acoustic sound. I tried to mark this visually by flipping the video of the “electric” guitar as that track came up higher in the mix. (Flipping also looked cool when I overlaid it with the bass video.)

The video also incorporates some public domain artworks of tigers, which I’ll list in order of their appearance below the words of the poem (below the video). I found all of the art on wikiart.org.

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

“Tiger’s Head” (Abbott Handerson Thayer, 1874)
“Tiger and Snake” (Eugene Delacroix, 1862)
“Tiger and Lion Hunting” (Peter Paul Rubens, 1615 or 1616)
“A Young Tiger Playing With Its Mother” (Eugene Delacroix, 1831)
“Tiger” (Ito Jakuchu, 1755)
“Tiger” (Utagawa Kunisada, 1830)
“Tiger” (Eugene Delacroix, 1830)

The Guest House (Rumi poem set to music)

December 13, 2021 — Leave a comment

This is quite a thought-provoking poem (of course it is, Rumi wrote it!). A creative way to look at moods, feelings, circumstances – not necessarily the only way. It’s a good balancing idea for someone who was raised to resist negative emotions, give them no quarter, don’t let them take control.

I’m fascinated with the idea of treating every new mood, thought, happening, as a guest in the house of my life. You give your attention to a guest, interact with them, ask how you may serve them – but you, as the host, remain the master of the house. So you don’t let these guests take over your life, you simply pay attention to them, treat them with generosity and hospitality, until they inevitably go on their way again.

(What I’ve found is that trying to “resist” a negative thought or emotion is really an impossibility – if it’s here for you to notice, then it’s already a reality. Of course you can keep yourself from acting on this negative emotion, but trying to pretend that it isn’t there at all doesn’t make it go away – it might just sneak in your back door and take up residence in your basement, and one day you’ll wonder, what is that awful stink?)

Things like love, joy, wealth, health are desirable guests. Rage, depression, poverty, sickness – not so much. Welcoming these things as guests feels close to the idea of loving an enemy. You are welcome here, but there are house rules, healthy boundaries, that I as the host will require.

In the act of serving a difficult guest – seeking to meet their needs, sharing conversation with them – you may come to understand them better – why they are here, what they need to move on. In the act of serving a delightful guest – turning your attention towards them – you may gain even more delight, deeper memories that stay with you after the guest has gone.

Beneath the video I’m including the lyrics I made and then the English translation by Coleman Barks that I worked from.

Each human life’s a guest house, each day brings something new
A joy or a depression might come and visit you
A moment of awareness, a miserable mean streak
Could end up unexpectedly walking up your street
Welcome and serve them all

And if a crowd of sorrows violently sweeps through
And empties you of everything, still this way is true
Give honor to each guest who comes into your life
They could be here to clear you out to hold a new delight
Welcome and serve them all

Dark thought and shame and malice, arriving in their time
Meet them each with laughter, invite them in with kindness
Be grateful for whoever comes, for each and every one
For each one has been sent as a guide from beyond
Welcome and serve them all

Coleman Barks translation:
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.