It Rips the Bones from Your Back…

This week is a salute to a poet whose brilliance, honestly, has me feeling uncharacteristically timid as I proceed to write.   Walk with me out on the wire… I perhaps hear him saying to me. 

On both Tuesday and Wednesday nights I stayed up late hoping to see some of the meteor shower expected in the skies in those nights.  On Tuesday night in Oakland it was foggy, so no luck that night.  On Wednesday night, we had pretty clear skies but for whatever reason I was again without any luck seeing the shower.  But what I did get to do is listen to some clips on YouTube while I was allowing the clock to tick past my usual bedtime hour by quite a bit— and I’m actually a bit of a night owl already.  And when I came across the video at the bottom of this post I guess I found myself reminded of some of my guitar-playing moments where I’d learn a song by listening to it either with a tape player or a cd player, playing it back over and over again until I got it.  It’s actually quite tedious— neurotic, some might say— to stop and rewind and play again, and stop and rewind and play again… and again… and again.  It’s not for everyone, I assure you.  But there’s a certain intimate, even hypnotic, suggestion that comes through the practice that only those who endure it could probably ever appreciate. 

But in this moment, I was not rewinding with any hopes of picking up the chords and notes of the guitar riffs.  It was the poetry I was after.  It was the cadence and the word choices that always represent far more than the words alone possibly could.  This total is immeasurably beyond the sum of its parts.   In these moments of such demanding examination of a work of art, in essence we are asking the artist to show us how.  We are asking the artist to reveal how he found those words.  We ask for an insight perhaps beyond our invitation so that maybe as aspiring writers maybe we, too, can see the very process of inspiration— especially on that level.  I think we ask of the artist simply, how can one view the world around him and pick out the jewels of inspiration so well?  So incredibly well. 

And as any great work of art will do, these intimate requests are rewarded from this persistence.  Eventually she gives in to the flattery with a return stare slightly longer than expected and allows you, her subject, an ephemeral glimpse deeper.  She affirms your sincerity, modestly acquiescing, and shares your admiration of nuance and subtlety.  And once granted such a moment by a piece of art, perhaps then one has genuinely encountered a willing muse of inspiration… where the words spoken reveal far more in symbol and the pulse of their delivery beckons distant ears. 

Indeed, I do listen… and hear… and repeat.  I gotta know how it feels.  I wanna know if it’s wild, I wanna know if it’s real. 

One post script:

During the writing of this post I heard news of the great Les Paul passing at age 94.  It’s hard to over-estimate how his inventions opened the doors for volumes and volumes of new music in many different genres, including of course rock ‘n roll.  So, if you have a moment check out this video of The Les Paul and Mary Ford at Home show in 1953.  Rest in peace, Lester William Polsfuss (1915-2009).