I'm attending a writing workshop. It goes from today until Thursday.
I'm not sure right now where or who I am as a writer or as a person - but I will be present. The workshop leader read a wonderful poem by Deborah Digges called "the house that goes dancing", a beautiful breathtaking poem about ecstatic grief. Yes.
Our prompt from the workshop was to take the first line of that poem
- Not always but sometimes when I put on some music
I went another way in my search for silence, but do follow the music. Do. And even if you don't, thanks for reading.
Turn off the Noise Not always, but sometimes, when I turn off the music
A voice starts to mutter, then whisper, then chime
I can't always hear it, it's quiet, it's muffled
But slowly I find that the voice might be mine. It's speaking of wonder, of travel, of vision
Of Tibetan monks who tri-vocalize.
It's calling up music from high school dances
First glances, first kisses, then longing and sighs. The voice, it gets louder, up from my belly
Into my ears, my nostrils, my eyes
And finally sometimes, a word or an image
Catches my throat and speaks to surprise.
Not always but sometimes. When I put on some music
The world stops, rain drops;
Each moment; frozen on life's sill
Mid-splash. Slap-dash
Reflexive lashing back against it stills Stillness, stills, stops, drops And jagged, shattered patterns
On the glass dissolve
Sleepy riverain across the pane
In sheets of folded liquid fain
Resolve Into a view, a distant shimm'ring brae
Mist shrouded gloaming forests, pinprick crows
A cottage like a fleck of granite grey
Warm hearth within, the window's curtain glows And all the dusk is liquid quiet and waits
And all the dusk is liquid quiet, and waits. Not always. But sometimes.
Not always, but sometimes, when I put on some music
I'll wish I had written it
I'll pretend that I had
Gazing upon that bride
Near waterloo station
The dirty water below
The red sun assuring me
One of these Fridays
I'll venture forth
I save the world Even though it didn't need any saving. Sometimes when I put on some music I wonder what it would sound like If I were a different person. Or how the music would sound If I was the musician Playing myself Or itself playing me I can't be sure. My music isn't made by long haired men With assorted guitars of different sorts. I can't get nostalgic about "those days" On the field with a girl that I don't know Sitting in a car I don't have That I can't afford. My music, however Let's me strut into any room Like a peacock with dark feathers But one that shifts uncomfortably on the bus Wondering if anyone heard. I hope not.Not always, but sometimes, when I put on some music
Not always, but sometimes, when I put on some music,
I shed my shirt to the floor, drop my jeans, don
My thin, black and white pants from Dresden, drown perfectly.
I frantically vibrate about the room, dance ecstatic energy.
Due dates, death, daily drudgery fall from my shoulders
Against their will, like boulders released in a landslide Ecstatic beads of grinning, greasy sweat pour forth
From my face through the ancient dance, each second tastes
Newer than the salty last, and the present moment is torn
From its neglected seat in my harried mind.
Not always, but sometimes, when I put on some music
Slithers of self from within begin to crack the surface.
Mere hairline fractures of my being enraptured,
Aware they're aligned to the will of the track So softly soothing, the groove is seducing
Inducing a state at once passive and lucid
Superficial rifts fade, failing in the light.
The music bares all, to seek shade is to fight.
Gutters Not always, but sometimes, when I put on some music
I tell myself that I am the sound
of the rain pounding on your window
waiting for a night of forgiveness
The noises you hear all over the cosmos
are falling into the river
at the end will you be silent?
or will you release?
Not always but sometimes when I put on some music
I get lost. Driving on highways that turn into two-lane roads,
I bend and weave through Pennsylvania, Delaware,
Maryland: the scenery’s exotic and I know I’m not
too far from home if I’m in any of those lands.
I’ve always joked if I go any further states away
then I know it’s trouble. Not always but sometimes when I put on some music
I turn it up until it escape the metal walls I keep
my heat on filling in: lost in a little land-locked marble,
held between metal barriers, I roll along the asphalt
and gravel, the concrete, and dream of how
roads are really Rube Goldberg machines,
how I would represent them with wooden
train tracks and silver balls, weight-tripped levers,
stop signs and timers, highways in constant motion.
Not always but sometimes
when I put on some music
the corners of my mouth crinkle.
My knees bend and my arms go up
as I search out the beat of the song with my butt. I'll eat the song and live in the moments
where any chance of humility is inherently hopeless.