You see the problem is, when I’ve done those things I have to do (and left undone some of those things I ought have done) the words I’ve scribbled through the spaces in the night drop around me again.
As often happens the phrases that have teased me for days still refuse to behave and arrange themselves obediently in iambic pentameters for my pleasure. Then something else intrudes and drags me off in some other direction. I suppose the last things I write at night (at least while still relatively awake) ebb and flow around the old shores of the unconscious where their lapping often tempts me to a literary paddle. Or sometimes full immersion.
Then the mind grinds into gear and phrases are coined and flipped onto the page. So here’s a kinda tango song. It’s still a little raw at the edges so any comments would be appreciated.
The midnight bird? Whenever I return home late, usually from tango, there’s nearly always a bird singing loudly, even a little defiantly, near my house.
A Song for the Midnight Bird
When we listen to the songs of the midnight birds
Can we dance to the music and not hear the words?
Sometimes he was leaning, sometimes he was strong.
She brought him some meaning, she taught him a song.
The turn of her body, the slide of her thighs.
The smile that she turns from and hides in her eyes.
She showed him her anger, she brought him her pain;
But he thought he could help her be happy again…
When we fear we can’t cope, we try to control
The things that we find in our heart and our soul.
But the scars that we draw in the dust on the floor
Only shape our desires and the need for much more.
And the moments of passion some seek to condemn
Are as joined to our needs as a flower to its stem.
Don’t ask if they’re wrong, we can tell if they’re right
When we listen to dreams which sweeten the night.
There are rivers we’ve crossed and bridges we’ve burnt,
Lessons we’ve lost and a few that we’ve learnt.
When the dancing has finished and the songs have all died
We’ll know then for certain and feel it inside…
Though we search for the sun, and make do with the moon,
The birds that mark midnight will be back again soon.