Saturday, March 31, 2012

Song of the Poem




The jazz in the room is flat. 
He’d slept when the sparrows chirped out their first major tweets of the day.
Is that an ode of a bugle to the dawn? 
He’d wonder tugging in the blankets, about to be enveloped by exhaustion and drowsiness.


The midday hustle breaks his slumber. He rises and rubs off what's left of that dreamless trip. As he sits on his bed fixated on a blank sheet of cover, something stirred:
The poem in him sends him a song; He’d not known there was such a messenger nor poetry or music.
 “Please sing it out loud,” it cries. “I’m not much for a crooner” He’d reply. “But that does not matter so long as the song is sung without a make up or a put on,” the poem begs.
“I’ll give it a go,” he says vaguely.


And swallowing the air in his mouth, he writes down the song of the poem. “Where did it come from?” he wonders as he sings the silent song. “Have you ever seen the wind?” The poem in him hums. “You mean the feel of the breeze and its whispering touch?” he says bewildered.
That got him drumming and as if on cue, sprang the song of the poem.

The moment lives and dies and is most alive when you are momentarily paralyzed in a way you’ve never known or moved.
The jester that makes you laugh goes to bed with sad companions and awakes to jaunt the boredom from the podium.
When he next hits the sack with nothingness for company, he wakes up to a reality splendidly thriving with life.
This is when the clown makes peace with the frown. He is now a fearless jokester armed with humor and satire as his weapons of mass consciousness breaking the subject down to its most elemental nature.

There is a crazy wisdom bone in all of us. The beef gets in the way. Strip that meat off and you feel the funny bone.
The porridge you’ve cooked up makes nice soup for the soul if that bone is in the cooking pot.

The song of the poem lives in everything. A carpenter hammers in sync, and somewhere a metalsmith bangs the heated rod making up a perfect harmony. 
Sounds from the streets rear up adding the background score.


There are the birds, chirping melodies orchestrated as if in a choir. 
The sights become audible notes of expression along with the sound. 
Its symphony removes the brutality.

The wind blows a horn.
The heart skips, licks and beats a steady rhythm
The thoughts take on a melodic jingle.
Humdrum daily monotony plays the keyboards.
A flock of crows perch atop antennas and chant ‘A’- the primordial tongue of the ancients.

The song of the poem pervades everything and seeps out of nothing.
Its quietness belies its vocals; the chord it strikes echoes the environs.
Nature expresses it best; waterfalls, brooks, creeks, and rivers play the stream. 
The winds of air whistle and rustle. 
The still mountains sing it on a silent bass. The forests and woods give it life.


The song of the poem is not lore. It is alive and resting in your head, heart and the gut. Its best felt in the chest, scribbled in the mind and sung uninhibited by the stomach.
There is no stage. There are no instruments. There is no audience to clap the feat.

It’s purely between you, the poem in you and in the manner of your life’s lyrics.
When freedom turns into a cell,
And all exits are shut and locked, The song of the poem is the key. 


The song of the poem is the key; its everywhere hiding in plain sight. If you see well you'll see how it lingers like so many halos. This sets you free.
The minor things in life play all the major parts.
Without a bar;
Without a fret.
Including your songs and lyrics, and your own natural musicality.





PS: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

No comments: