I wrote this song several years ago using a prompt that said, take a poem and set it to music.
Actually, that’s not correct. (After searching in vain for a Dickinson poem that starts thus.)
Now I remember! The prompt was to write a poem in the style of a poet. I wrote this ala Dickinson, then put it to music (which you can link to here).
The Child that hears the Buzz
The Child that hears the Buzz
of bees whose Spirits merge
with sweet Honey/ attunes our ears to Spring
He boldly finds the lowly
worm the Robin in
Her rush may spurn/ upset by Winter’s fling
The daylight spent like
Licorice on tongues
aglow with innocence/ the Night a curtain falls
Unfurling Grace whose hidden
Rooms and servants guard
Against dour Gloom/ until kind Dawn shall call
How time plays with our perception of origins. I had forgotten my part in the poem’s inception! I suppose it is a valid gift, so, Happy Birthday Emily!
It was just what she found herself going for, a nebulous sort of thing, more of a feeling than anything. Yet she slipped into it, a kind of mood, a melancholia, even, yes; only it felt like finding herself, or falling into a familiar room. Like a tune she plucked out on the piano, a simple melody, 3 or 4 chords tops, just playing them over and over again. It certainly wasn’t brilliant by any stretch of the imagination, but it wasn’t brilliance she was after, no, more of an itch she felt like scratching by means of those 4 chords. An itch was a sadness. It wasn’t the stack of paperwork she brought home for the evening, no, that was just ghastly, she’d rather die then resign herself to cracking that pile of crap when she had a burning itch there reminding her of her longing. That’s where her loyalties lay, why she didn’t show the troubled parts of herself the door; she found comfort in her state of uncertainty.
Having played for her son Bird on a Wire and The Sailing Song by Leonard Cohen and Nick Cave respectively.
Margo: How low are they singing?
Kepler: It’s not that they are singing low, it’s just that they aren’t good singers so they use mixed voice which gives them a nice tone. It’s hard to say if they are a tenor or a baritone b/c they’re just singing where their voices sound good. I’m sure if they wanted to get trained they could and we could find out what their range is but they don’t want to b/c they are singing in a place that is easy to find a good tone in.
Margo: Leonard Cohen is quite old, you know.
Kepler: Yeah, your voice will never tire in mixed voice. Since they aren’t really singing in any range they are able to get that super easy tone and not strain themselves. They can sing that way on their deathbed, since that range where they’re comfortable is never going to change.
Margo: I’m sure they’d be relieved to know that.
Kepler: They don’t have to worry b/c they sound as good as any singer in that voice tone, and they probably sing their songs better than anyone else anyways. As far as pitch goes, in their kind of songs, pitch doesn’t really matter.
Margo: I never thought of that before.
I wander off from the spectacle to browse the pile of clothing in the clothes swap. The song wafting out from the meadow where the aerial rigging sways buoys my interest. The blonde girl-child deftly hoisting herself up the rope in time to the music. . . “Blue lips, blue veins, blue, the color of our planet from far, far away.” I stop in my tracks like a bird watcher off the beaten path, rewarded with a stolen glimpse of magnificence. Later, I spy the teen hanging back near the fence and summon up the courage to ask her her song. “Blue lips, by Regina Spektor”, she says, beguiling.
Fast forward. Rigging is coming down though the sun is still up. The girl-child’s mother appears and tells me that I know her child, though she has grown up out of my sight and transformed into the radiant being present today. I was brave in leaping across the divide to converse with what I thought was a stranger. It’s a testament of the power of music to dissolve boundaries, and compel us to approach a deity who ends up being a member of our tribe. “Blue, the most human, color….”