May 2014
ian anderson wears my father's face,
my small hands in his work-worn palms
as he sings to me: war-child,
dance the days and nights away...
LATER.
my home is barefoot wandering baker street
in the dirt-path days before arthur conan doyle,
rabbits running in the gutter,
arms full of tea-cups,
praying to the gods of war
at the chapel of the bright city mile
on a dusty sunday afternoon--
and every song is home:
like the inside of a tavern,
yellow candlelight dancing across the wooden walls.
i see falstaff, ruddy-faced and drunk in the corner,
roland, passed out with a cup in hand,
my father, the minstrel in the gallery,
smile on his face, piping out a tune.
it is because of him i am a valkyrie, a war-child.
it is by his virtue that i brandish a sword,
that i stand at attention, that my back is unbroken,
that i give no armistice--
and he taught me how
(though it seems inconsequential)
to play solitaire.
OF COURSE.
and while the horses wander the hillside,
while i become the poet and unsheath my pen,
while i join the stage and leave the audience,
i know-- always--
i can follow the flute home.
my small hands in his work-worn palms
as he sings to me: war-child,
dance the days and nights away...
LATER.
my home is barefoot wandering baker street
in the dirt-path days before arthur conan doyle,
rabbits running in the gutter,
arms full of tea-cups,
praying to the gods of war
at the chapel of the bright city mile
on a dusty sunday afternoon--
and every song is home:
like the inside of a tavern,
yellow candlelight dancing across the wooden walls.
i see falstaff, ruddy-faced and drunk in the corner,
roland, passed out with a cup in hand,
my father, the minstrel in the gallery,
smile on his face, piping out a tune.
it is because of him i am a valkyrie, a war-child.
it is by his virtue that i brandish a sword,
that i stand at attention, that my back is unbroken,
that i give no armistice--
and he taught me how
(though it seems inconsequential)
to play solitaire.
OF COURSE.
and while the horses wander the hillside,
while i become the poet and unsheath my pen,
while i join the stage and leave the audience,
i know-- always--
i can follow the flute home.
Listening to "Thick as a Brick" today and realizing that Jethro Tull music has a very specific feel to me. I was raised on Tull music, thanks to my father, and have very fond memories of singing along to the War Child album with him as a very young child. I want to improve this-- this was an attempt to spit a draft onto paper. With Tull music, I'm often reminded of three distinct things: 1.) for some reason, I always pictured Ian Anderson as my father (and, in their old age now, they actually look quite alike), 2.) I get a Falstaff feel, for some reason-- tavern music from the fifteenth century? 3.) Home, undeniably, like I could climb up and make a bed for myself in the lyrics.
