Elegy in E Harmonic Minor

In 1880, Tchaikovsky composed the Overture of 1812.
It is a composition made famous
by the fact that it uses canon fire to act as instrumentation.
It's played every July 4th here in America,
but if you listen closely
you can hear canon fire covers
in distant deserts;
you can hear sons turn their bodies into crescendos;
cast their xylophone bones into a chorus of shattered silence.
The Middle East may not know western music,
but that's only because they only hear its dissonance
never its resolution
because an accord reached at the end of World War II
diminished holy land held by Palestine
and augmented land exiled from
into a land returned to.

If bodies are temples,
then every suicide bomb bent
on spreading holy organ chords
is just another form of graffiti
that tags blood over open doorways
to tell those around:
Pass over this place.

The trouble with holy land
is that it's only holy
because so many martyrs have buried their beat underneath it.

And somewhere a Palestine father prays
that his son will never elegy himself into an explosion.
Somewhere, a Palestine mother prays
that he child will grow instrument limbs,
that her child will have A sharp lungs and B flat feet
so that hate can't conscript him into its sepulcher.

And somewhere in America, a politician prays that the public
won't listen long enough to remember
that it was we who swung these scales in the first place;
it was we who thought democracy
would sing the right key.

We are not the correct composers
because we still think that the Overture of 1812
with its explosive instrumentation
commemorates us.

It doesn't.

That overture found its voice in 1880
to celebrate a Russian victory,
and that's ironic because the CIA taught a battle hymn of hatred
to Afghanistan when Russia invaded 100 years later.
That hymn still echoes with IEDs rather than canons.

The trouble with never having war on home soil
is we don't have a reason to cease
because we've never had to reap
crops sewn by the flesh of the dead.

We haven't had to hear dissonance's dirge,
and the only coverage our soldiers get
is flags covering their coffins.

I don't know
when our anthem became
the sound of a nation collectively covering its ears,
but there are still measures left.

This song isn't over.

And I don't want anyone
to fear their son becoming
an explosion.


This piece is based off a quote I heard on NPR spoken by a Palestinian man:
"I don't want my son to become a suicide bomber.
I want my son to live.
I want my son to become a musician."

Dance of Life

I rather like the life of a poet. Traveling and writing; telling stories and meeting new people. Dancing. Okay, perhaps that last one is not necessary to be living the life of a poet, but it is necessary for my poetry.

For me, dancing is the missing connection between hearts. Sure, we can speak words which allude to feelings, and we can hold hands as though treating the other as a transfusion, but dancing creates a rhythmic connection as though the body is moving within the beat of a universal heart – add to this that two bodies are moving together connected by hands to make a circle unbroken – dancing is alchemy for transmuting music to movement through hearts powered by feet.

The common metaphor for life in today's culture is one which refers to life as a race. We are all trying to get somewhere the fastest. I'm still not sure towards what we are racing, but it promises to hit us with the casual snap of a broken ribbon. I am not so sure I want to know what is at the end. Races never really end. People are always running. Or training to be able to run that much faster than their opponent in the next race. What are we running from? To what are we running? Where does this all go? Why do we look so beat when we cross the finish line? I can't make sense of a metaphor in which little is left to interpretation. So, instead, I'd like to turn toward a different metaphor altogether. If one doesn't like the concept with which he is faced, one must invent new words or supplant the old ideas with one more fitting. So, I turn back the hands of the clock into a time less focused on time but more so on timing.

In the Middle Ages, the prominent metaphor for life was that of a dance. I feel as though this makes more sense because music is ephemeral. It will not last any longer than the vibration of a string, the stirring of air. Lungs power music as much as hands do. Music has a definitive ending point, but we can replay the song in our minds a million times over without – melodies get stuck in our minds like stories. Music ends, but it can be replayed, and no one wins at the end of the song except for those who danced. If life is a dance, then we only need to tap into timings in order to tap into time. Feet don't have to move, but when they do to a rhythm, a beauty emerges. And it expands in every direction.

Life is not linear.

Music is not linear.

Dances are not linear, and music is interpretation rather than command. A poet speaks in rhythm just as bodies speak in dance.

Races have a right answer and a wrong time.

Dancers need not apologize.

So don't apologize when your feet feel too tired to move, you are not running a race with points to its end; you are engaged in a dance where the universe holds your hand. Listen to the rhythm and fear not the end of the song; we all will be dipped, but this dip is one of beauty and is not to be feared because we will not be dropped. We will not be dropped. We need not compete to get underground faster.

And I will remember to live, breathe, love, and dance.

Drew Discovers The Universe

I learned recently that magic happens. The heart moves faster than eyes can see, so when two hearts which had been moving along parallel lines change their direction to intertwine, something magical happens.

We went to Three Margaritas. I ordered a Macho Burrito. Perhaps for its name sake I wanted to embody a stronger image. She ordered off the appetizer menu – Chicken Floutas, I believe. They brought chips and salsa. Our conversation unfolded coolly to counteract the spice of the salsa. We talked unapologetically while laughing. I could've sworn we unraveled at least one mystery of the universe that night – perhaps that was because she was the epitome of my universe. I think we unraveled into each other over topics like music, like past, like God. I don't think I ever told her how beautiful she is, and to say that I'm not good at compliments simply doesn't seem excuse enough to justify such a glaring omission. When you've got the universe sitting next to you, a few things are going to be outshown by its stars.

I learned recently that magic happens. Hands move faster than eyes can see, so when two hands' lines come together to intertwine, something magical happens.

We arrived at Stargazer's Theatre. The building is a repurposed observatory. I couldn't imagine needing to look up at the sky that night. We took seats in the upper level of the observatory. The stage unfolded before us. Lined with four guitars, three basses, two drum sets, and three keyboards, the stage picked up kinetic energy. It was a rock ready to roll.
The first band came out. Smooth jazz headed by a man who played the flute in just such a style. He called himself Flute Daddy, and this was the name taken by the other members of the band. After their solos, the main member of the ensemble introduced them by their real name. After every solo, he said this name. I still don't remember their names. How could I when I had the universe securely in my arms? If the sun is a beautiful thing to behold, then a universe full of stars is indescribable. I don't remember a smile ever leaving my lips that night.

I learned recently that magic happens. Feet move faster than eyes can see, so when two feet line up their  patterns to intertwine with beat, something magical happens.

The second band came up. Dotsero. They played with the intensity of a super-nova. The music was beautiful. Improvised, it wrapped around us like fingers wrap around each other. Unmistakable, the energy filled space, echoed off the roof and wrapped us up together. This music made me feel more connected with the universe than I had ever been previously.
Dotsero asked its audience to dance. The message orbited. Like a satellite, I kept in contact with this request. "Let It Be" as a melody unfolded from a saxophone. The gravity became too much, so I transmitted its message to the stars, said "This is dance-able" and hoped for assent. When a nod responded, I lifted and walked towards an improvised dance floor. I felt the universe following in my footsteps. We arrived and commenced stepping to the rhythm set before us.

The music came to fade.
Every universe needs its constellation, so I dipped her.
Held her close.
Looked into her eyes.
Observed the beauty of the universe unfolding.

I learned recently
that magic happens.

December 3rd Prompt and Poem - It's in the Music

Recently, I attended a memorial walk for an acquaintance who had passed.  I was listening to a conversation that another friend of his was having.  One word stuck out: "Searching."  Ideas flooded into being; I brought out my notebook and began to write.  I listened to a song with the same title as the word which had just been used.  For reference, this is the song I was listening to:

This is the piece which followed:

Searching

There is a song called "Searching" by an artist
named Joe Satriani. It's a song that starts
off with a slow pulse - like a question at rest.
Chords kick in and a driving solo begins like
the notes are trying to find their home - wide
vibratos and a bass which wants to find its place
between the high strung, tight singing strings and
those loose enough to make rock roll. Suddenly,
the guitar swings wildly, matching the frenetic
pace of the bass, and I realize that the music
is matching emotions, and I wonder if this
is what the music inside of his mind sounded like
when he searched for an answer - a reason for being?
an idea to hold onto? beauty? a melody?
Was he searching for a string - vibrant, sonorous - enough
to stitch his heart back together -
when a man's hands close like life could
never fill them again, the reason is rarely the moment -
the reason is rarely in the hands - the reason
seems to be nothing - nothing found from the
search - no thing strong enough
to hold hands open anymore - what were you searching
for?
       I can't find anything but upset in the waves
that continue outward - music only exists in the moments
we hear it, but its reverberations can be heard
in the echoes of instruments and in their phrasings like
"I'm sorry for your loss" or "I remember when..." because
not everyone has fingers nimble enough to
pluck out notes, but we all have a heart
strong enough to be tuned and sing out your
praises - and, honestly, I never knew you
well enough to even begin to understand why
the beats of all these hearts sound so somber,
but I have to believe that this
is the only way your song could have ended -
it was always in your hands, and this note - this
note
        is trying to make all the songs we're singing
find harmony because one day those songs too will end, but
our search will continue, and
one day
we may find
the strings to complete this symphony.

_________________________________________________________________________________


Music is a very powerful force in our lives, so I want to ask you to tap into that power.

Find a song (it can have lyrics, but instrumental ones can provide for more interpretation) and write a poem about what it means to you.

What connections does this song have?  How do you feel when the music plays?  Do you feel that the song is saying something other than what you can hear?  Are there any stories which go along with this song?  I have a tendency to attach potent memories to songs, so bring up your past if you'd like, and tell your story through a song.

Feel free to post what you come up with hear and a link to the music which inspired it!

Additionally, there may be a fund set up in honor of the subject of this poem and to help his family. I will update with any further information as it becomes available for anyone who may be interested in learning more.

Thank you and happy writing!