The room lay empty. Personless. Waiting for the next opportunity where it would be allowed to grow creatively. Last week a group of pointy toed ballerinas. Today literary people. The curtains hid a secret. Gathered in a corner like gossips. They knew. What happened in this room?
Lately I have been coming back to the same question.
What do I want from singing?
Do I want to be a big star?
Do I want to make big bucks
and be driven in a limousine car.
Well I wouldn’t say no to those sorts of things.
Pearl necklaces and diamond rings.
But living in the lap of luxury would not
keep me happy for long.
Audiences may fill venues
and listen to my songs
but I don’t think that would
make me happy for always.
I can live without compliments.
I can live without praise.
I sing to go to another place.
Somewhere where I am me with a smile on my face.
If I could pass on that happiness to someone else
so they too would understand,
I would have achieved
something before I leave this lonely land.
Do angels come to poets?
Have they ever been?
Yes. My muse is with me always.
Heard but never seen.
Lyrics whispered in my ear.
Songs at their birth.
Enough time given to
write down the words.
Always with me from
morning till night.
Should I accept the poem as my own?
Do I search for someone else to
write the poem down?
My imagination runs riot.
I don’t construct.
My poem forms itself.
Spectator not participant in the process.
Like song and air flowing through the body of a singer.
Pushed and moved by the current of
extraneous forces but
not an entity in itself.
I have a vain ambition to
hunt my poems down.
I have put them all on Facebook
so I am sure they will be around.
I started out slowly but really wrote a lot.
Some were good.
And some were not.
They are all out hiding on Facebook now
so with my cutting and pasting tool
I will hunt them down.
They have been kind to me
and have let me pour my heart out
into the words as my brain
worked out what to say.
Like butterflies they are fluttering and
flying away from me.
I want to catch them
but I am sure they just want to be free.
This is an evolution of a poem from the moment the words of a poem are placed on a page to the audience’s reception of a song.
sat down with paper and pen
to write about important things
and what mattered to them.
Thoughts and feelings
were frozen in time.
It didn’t matter if the
words didn’t rhyme.
read the poem and
agreed with what they saw.
Nobody had discussed these things before
so music was added.
A pulse was added to the beat.
They worked hard on it
until they were satisfied
the song was complete.
a choir got hold of the song.
Their conductor knew what to do
to make the music resonate
and make the lyrics ring true.
There was work to be done,
something the choir loved best.
A universal message was written for all
and had to be expressed.
The universal message spoke of
a soul’s need to be free
to express itself and be happy.
Find thoughts behind emotions,
find words behind a thought.
Thoughts tangle on words and
are thus caught.
Sometimes poems and I are not on friendly terms –
The Terror of the Empty Page
I stare at the empty page
and the page stares back at me.
We are not friends.
It tells me my thoughts are worthless.
Nobody wants to hear what I have to say.
That thought saps the power from my pen.
My pen becomes heavy and slow
I push through that feeling of inadequacy by
writing my thoughts down, no matter
how silly or weird.
Maybe someone else understands the
quicksand feeling of wanting to do something
but feeling that it is impossible.
I share that feeling and understand.
If I don’t move forward, I stay in the same spot.
Simon and Vikki were council workers who used to work with us. They were very supportive in the formation of the community choir I love to sing in.
Thank you Simon and Vikki
we have been a thinking
it is time there was a thanking
to those heroes of our choir
who remain behind the scenes,
it is often left unsaid but I think this might be read
to Simon and Vicki for without them
our choir would not be.
if it weren’t for the sound clips, the songs would not be sung,
if it weren’t for the coffee and tea, the friendships would not be sprung,
if it weren’t for the sheet music, we would be completely lost,
if it weren’t for Simon and Vicki, we would have nowhere to rehearse.
thank you for fixing the seats so
we can sit and sing,
thank you for the name badges so
we can start talking,
thank you working out the backstage stuff so
we know what to do,
thank you for welcoming us the very first time
when everything was new.
people come and people go
but what is left when the show ends?
memories of good times shared and
people who have become more than friends.
thank you Simon and Vicki,
without you we would not be us.
We all enjoyed singing and being together so we decided to become a community choir with an open door policy for all who wanted to join us.
Singing is my therapy.
Whenever anything bad happens to me
I will be singing or playing the piano.
It is not like I don’t care and
I am carefree and happy so I am enjoying some music.
No, I do this so I can lose myself in a familiar world
where the only thing that can hurt me is a discordant note.
Writing poetry is sort of like singing to me.
I just let my fingers prattle and see what happens.
Thank goodness for the arts.
They are my therapy.
A poem waits for me at the corner of my mind.
If I look at it directly, it disappears.
I need to look at my words as if I am looking at a mirror.
The mirror being all I have experienced in my life.
Pen and paper reflects what I see and my poem works.
Otherwise I chase pots of gold at the end of rainbows
but never catch up.
I try to rid myself of my thoughts
so I scrape them off onto a page
where they become poems.
I feel lighter.
My poem smiles at me.
We are both happy to be
apart but not enemies.