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Tag: singing

The Mockingbird

Published on July 15, 2005

I have heard the mockingbird’s own personal song:
late at night when other fowl have found their nests,
the tune comes sweet and low, passed like a hot plate
between two diners at an all-night chop house,
whose whispers barely rise above the constant hum
of the deep freeze and yellow-red heat lamps
on the raised platform between greasy cook and rumpled girl,
whose chewing gum snaps like the second hand
of a battery-powered watch, keeping and doing time.

I have heard the mockingbird at other times, too:
echoing note for note an exercise of Paganini’s,
repeating sections time and time again, each trill
rehearsed like a second chair violinist aiming for first.

I have heard the mockingbird, disguised among the trees;
and though the other birds perhaps were fooled,
leaving their nests to search for some Caruso-throated Romeo,
as a musician and singer myself, I could tell it was him,
showing off, pretending like Jack Benny would, to be inept,
and only capable of the rough squawks and whistles
that comprise the repertoire of wrens and crows.

I have heard the mockingbird’s own secret verse:
for fellow mockingbirds alone, this song is loosed,
when haughty critics and ignorant crowds have gone away.
Then the Bird drops his subservient tone, and
with Dizzy and Monk, after hours, shows what he can do.

15 JUL 2005

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My once sweet voice

Published on June 23, 2005

My once sweet voice, so innocent
and full of strength and power
is now reduced to rasp and hum,
its range half what it was.

It rumbles, where it once so glibly
glissed; the pure head tone
has sunk into my heavy chest
and breaks where it once slid.

Disuse, abuse and pure neglect
have left my instrument
(once proud and fearless,
capable of stratospheric feats)

dented and dusty, ill-repaired,
and painfully withdrawn.
It’s clear unless I brush it off,
and soon, it will be gone.

23 JUN 2005

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The voice you hear

Published on June 4, 2005

The voice you hear is not my voice; lost in the sound of your own making,
these words were new-forged long before the human throat began to hum,
and then began to form the shapes of bringing-into-being charms.

Before the echo of that utter, in the silence between seconds
where the space of breath expands beyond time and being
these words lived aeons and grew old awaiting tongues to speak their names.

The voice you hear is not my voice; it is the sound that throbs beneath
a single raindrop’s spattering. It is your voice I hear;
and yet you have not mouth or tongue, nor one sigh’s force to use.

04 JUN 2005

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What is the Secret Song?

Published on April 20, 2005

What is secret song that the whole world
hums underneath its breath, too soft to hear
unless you sit in silence, in the dark
and listen as intently as you can?

And when you hear it once, why it is so
that its refrain eludes your memory’s grasp?
Does it vibrate on some harmonic scale
that with its very echo self-destructs?

The melody, so simple and so pure,
seems to be shifting constantly in flux
so that each phrase is new; no line repeats,
nor lends itself to rote and mindless chant.

The rhythm pulses static long enough
to catch your heartbeat’s diastolic thump,
but suddenly it swells in pregnant pause
to fill all time in but a moment’s breath.

I have heard music played beyond my ken,
so wild and free it stretched my sonic grasp
to breaking; and then all the pieces slipped
back to their assigned cells of time and space.

Long past that last note’s echo I will know
what symphony the universe conducts;
and in that gaping chasm, my small voice
awaits the cue to loose its single note.

What secret song is known to the whole world,
yet takes a lifetime’s listening to hear?
The sound of living, one breath at a time,
and finding sacred every sip of air.

20 APR 2005

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After a Line in Rumi

Published on December 27, 2004

Between the acts on the great stage
the green room swells with life;
like ocean waves the movement never stops.

Each spent performer, bathed in sweat,
absorbed into their entourage,
glows with the energy of the crowd.

Around the curtain’s edge, those next
to play are bathed in the footlights;
their skins mirrored white phosphorus.

All are intoxicated with a sense of time
on the heady brew of ideas and wild talk;
each creates their own constellation.

It seems to me an India:
a festival begun ten thousand years
ago, with millions in the band.*

I came here as a stranger, long ago;
although I know the hour I arrived,
I could not say which door I used.

With jugglers, clowns, actors and saints
I’ve sung and played and swooned;
the stage is shared with all who care to dance.

Outside the street is dark; no lights
run down the path that leads away.
The door is open; no one stands in wait.

I do not know the ticket price,
nor if I walked or came by car.
It does not matter, either way.

The lights are dimmed, another song
from silence rises into form;
I know the words as if they were mine.

When will it end? I cannot say;
each claims their after-party rights,
as if this show will ever end.

I’ll sing as long as I’m allowed,
and stay until its done;
there are fruits and wine enough.

And once I’m filled and all sung out
whoever brought me to this place
will have to take me home.

17 DEC 2004

* Bhagavan Das, in his biography, describes India upon his arrival in the early 60’s as “a big outdoor festival that had been going on for 10,000 years, with 10 million people in the band.”

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At Dawn When I Awoke

Published on December 7, 2004

At dawn, when I awoke, the rain
was but a mist that damped the lawn;
and then its whitewash strength increased
to rinse the night, ’til it was gone.

Its purpose served, it too then waned,
as greys began to blue
and dried the puddles left behind
to just a drop or two.

Yet on the breeze I taste it still —
its cool and fragrant kiss,
that lingers in the morning air;
good days begin like this.

The wrens, at first asleep, or shy,
now venture from their shade
and low, take up their favorite tune
and start to promenade.

07 DEC 2004

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Singing Lessons

Published on March 31, 2003

If you want to learn to sing,
learn to breathe below the neck;
let the air fill your belly,
do not tense the throat and chest.

When you let loose the sound,
if it buzzes only in your head
it will sound small and strained;
if you do not feel the vibrations

through your toes, it is not singing.
Before you exhale through your open mouth,
remember, once your jaw is dropped
your Eustachian tubes will crimp;

so be sure to listen long and hard
first – do not rush into the first note.
Leave aside your theatrics and gesticulations!
There is time later for that circus.

To sing is not to entertain, but to fill.
Believe in the song, do not choose lightly;
for singing is sustained speech,
and the overtones will echo long after

you pause for breath.
Do not try to own the song;
just let it carry you.
Do not try to add anything

just try not to take too much away.
Now: inhale deeply and begin.

31 MAR 2013

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