Digging Poetry

It was a perfectly beautiful fall day today, at last. I did turn on the heat this morning after I got up, just to take the chill out of the house, but it became too warm almost immediately and I turned it off.

I ran hither, thither and yon this morning on my various Saturday morning missions, including the purchase of a new pair of crocs -- bright red! -- for the Disney trip. I was in the car a lot. And I was listening to a mix of very classic Simon and Garfunkel songs.

Oh, they were wonderful, weren't they? The newest of the songs in the mix was Bridge Over Troubled Water, so I'm going back quite solidly into the sixties here. Although many of the songs evoke memories of where I was when I heard them and such, I was particularly enjoying the poetry of the songs this morning. And I decided to share three of them with you.

The first one that grabbed me today was A Poem on the Underground Wall. Not only is the song about a "poem", it is quite a remarkable poem itself, and is so well married to the music that, listening to it, you feel yourself on a subway platform, the throbbing approach of the train in your ears.

The last train is nearly due,
The underground is closing soon,
And in the dark deserted station,
Restless in anticipation,
A man waits in the shadows.

His restless eyes leap and scratch,
At all that they can touch or catch,
And hidden deep within his pocket,
Safe within its silent socket,
He holds a colored crayon.

Now from the tunnel's stony womb,
The carriage rides to meet the groom,
And opens wide and welcome doors,
But he hesitates, then withdraws
Deeper in the shadows.

And the train is gone suddenly
On wheels clicking silently
Like a gently tapping litany,
And he holds his crayon rosary
Tighter in his hand.

Now from his pocket quick he flashes,
The crayon on the wall he slashes,
Deep upon the advertising,
A single worded poem comprised
Of four letters.

And his heart is laughing, screaming, pounding
The poem across the tracks rebounding
Shadowed by the exit light
His legs take their ascending flight
To seek the breast of darkness and be suckled by the night.

The next song that captivated me today is one of my all-time favorites, America. I have seen Paul Simon (but sadly, not with Art Garfunkel) sing this song twice in person. It never fails to move the crowd; a cheer goes up at each place name mentioned. I once read a review that said never has a moon risen so peacefully.

Let us be lovers; we'll marry our fortunes together.
I've got some real estate here in my bag.
So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner's pies
And we walked off to look for America.
Cathy, I said, as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh:
Michigan seems like a dream to me now.
It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw;
I've gone to look for America.
Laughing on the bus, playing games with the faces.
She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy.
I said be careful, his bowtie is really a camera.
Toss me a cigarette, I think there's one in the raincoat.
We smoked the last one an hour ago.
So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine.
And the moon rose over an open field.
Cathy, I'm lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping,
I'm empty and aching and I don't know why.
Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike,
They've all come to look for America,
All come to look for America

(I added the punctuation to that one.)

And finally, Old Friends, one of the most evocative poems I think Paul Simon ever wrote, and remarkable considering his youth when he wrote it. This should be to Paul Simon what When I'm 64 is to Paul McCartney. I wonder how he feels if he hears this song now? Does it make him want to go hang out with Artie for a while? I loved this song when I was a kid; I was on the committee that had it placed on the last page in our high school yearbook. And it means much more to me now.

Old friends, old friends,
Sat on their parkbench like bookends.
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round toes
of the high shoes of the old friends

Old friends, winter companions, the old men
Lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sunset.
The sounds of the city sifting through trees
Settle like dust on the shoulders of the old friends

Can you imagine us years from today,
Sharing a parkbench quietly?
How terribly strange to be seventy.

Old friends, memory brushes the same years,
Silently sharing the same fears.

(I added/corrected some of the punctuation on that one.)

Still with me? Find the music somewhere, if you can, and listen. The early stuff. Wonderful, still.

WATCHING THE HISTORY CHANNEL :: ENTRY #1605