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to the songwriter
by Natalie Jones : a portrait of a moment
That night seemed over before
it had even begun. Tired and sticky
like breath, like Florida highways
in summertime which only feel
endless for about the first week.
My head felt like it was on
a pillow of the day, and then
there was this dark room with
kids holding cigarette sticks
and people playing guitars as
if they were drums. His voice
like melodies of clouds, or clouds
themselves, or the outline of
clouds or, perhaps, inventing
clouds. What must it feel like
to be this vessel for possibility,
his body humming his acoustic bones,
singing coming out in ringlets like
tiny braided strands of hair
weaving around a room downtown
in a dark city. His voice shackled
to his heart like bootstraps.
What it was for the poet to hear
the songwriter, to realize what it
must be to hear the rhythm in
strings, the possibility of combinations
like lettershis alphabet the scale
major and minor, the old lovers,
the starting and stopping, and then
for him to keep playing. If there
could have been a song that looked
like an open road, his was it.
Singing each mile marker to himself
in that room that starry night,
eclipsing all other breaths.
I was just listening in. 02/16/2006 Author's Note: http://www.myspace.com/matthewwinn
Posted on 02/17/2006
Copyright © 2010 Natalie Jones
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