[William A. Baurle]

Thanks for that, Michael. M.M. had some astonishingly good poems. I will try to remember her further down the line, and hunt up my [Found it!] Viking hard cover of The Poems of Marianne Moore.

But for now, I said I was going to go formal. This is not exactly a formal poem, rather song lyrics written in what I would call "high style" for a rock lyricist. I have the good fortune of having a Dad (still kicking [& w/ a ponytail, no less] at 73, God bless his sweet soul) who loved music, and rock music in particular. My earliest memories are of waking up on weekends, when Dad was home from work, to the smell of coffee & breakfast cooking, accompanied by music, played on vinyl in one of those old furniture stereo systems. I will never forget the smell of the clean, lemon-scented wood, the warmth of the analog speakers, that special sense of "What is coming next?" when we (my brother, sister, and I) heard the phonograph needle settle down on the record as it spun around...

The best part was that my father would open the albums, show us lyrics if they were available, or, if not, we would listen and talk about the words to the songs, and what we thought they meant. I still remember trying to figure out, "Life is like a beanstalk, isn't it?" Everything was profound and rife with meaning, on those happy weekends.

I think this is a great poem, even without music.


***

Whaling Stories

Paling well after sixteen days, a mammoth task was set.
Sack the town, and rob the tower, and steal the alphabet.
Close the door and bar the gate, but keep the windows clean.
God's alive inside a movie! Watch the silver screen!

Rum was served to all the traitors; pygmies held themselves in check;
Bloodhounds nosed around the houses, down dark alleys sailors crept.
Six bells struck, the pot was boiling - soup spilled out on passers-by;
Angels mumbled incantations, closely watched by God on high.

Lightning struck out - fire and brimstone! Boiling oil and shrieking steam!
Darkness struck with molten fury, flashbulbs glorified the scene.
Not a man who had a finger, not a man who could be seen,
Nothing called (not name nor number) - Echo stormed its final scream.

Daybreak washed with sands of gladness, rotting all it rotted clean.
Windows peeped out on their neighbors, inside fireside bedsides gleam.
Shalimar, the trumpets chorused, angels wholly all shall take.
Those alive will meet the prophets, those at peace shall see their wake.

— Keith Reid




Had to append this song as well:

In the Autumn of My Madness

In the autumn of my madness when my hair is turning grey
For the milk has finally curdled and I've nothing left to say
When all my thoughts are spoken (save my last departing birds)
Bring all my friends unto me and I'll strangle them with words

In the autumn of my madness which in coming won't be long
For the nights are now much darker and the daylight's not so strong
And the things which I believed in are no longer quite enough
For the knowing is much harder and the going's getting rough