Monday, September 27, 2010
I was introduced to a singer today, and his music was beautiful. I played one song over and over while I was writing a letter to a friend, and after a while I thought ‘I have no idea what he’s singing about.’ I pulled up the lyrics and found out that basically, there were none. Now, like I said it was beautiful, and I didn’t think much about it, just went on with my letter.
Later, I was sitting in my apartment and figured I needed to feed this hunger for poetry. I’ve never read a lot of poetry but I love writing verses and ideas in a list and call it poetry. Lesson one of writing, read a lot of what you want to do, and if it’s plays or movies watch a lot of them. But, other than the one or two times I would get overwhelmed by the poetry section in the library in the city, I really haven’t explored a lot of poetry.
I put on my I pod shuffle and walked down the hill to the library. Who was on the shuffle? The Band, followed by Robbie himself, Sarah Slean, Jonny Lang, and Michelle Branch; see where I’m coming from? I really picked up on “The Weight” I listened to it a couple times, it’s practically a novel. I love the story tellers, I love my songs to be stuffed full of words and images and stories. I knew my love for verse came from my music, but I really realized it this afternoon. I’m still listening to the shuffle, the musicians continue to be singer song writers, even my hip hop and pop is Timbaland and Nelly Furtado, and if you listen there are stories in there. Kinda.
The point is I borrowed 6 books of poetry from the library and bought just as many from the second hand book store down the street. Poetry, here I come.
Rainer Maria Rilke
This translation is by Guntram Deichsel:
Lord, it is time. Let the great summer go,
Lay your long shadows on the sundials,
And over harvest piles let the winds blow.
Command the last fruits to be ripe;
Grant them some other southern hour,
Urge them to completion, and with power
Drive final sweetness to the heavy grape.
Who's homeless now, will for long stay alone.
No home will build his weary hands,
He'll wake, read, write letters long to friends
And will the alleys up and down
Walk restlessly, when falling leaves dance.