Today's poem is by Bruce Bond
Elegy for Tim Buckley
In the street we walk as beggars
In the alley faithless kings.
"The River"Scat singing for the sleep deprived
it's what the critics called his
final music, his ship that plowedsome great uncharted dissonance
as if that's where he was headed
all along, to the restless distancebetween an ear and its pillow,
between the wind guard of the mike
and insomnia that whispered lowone moment, then rose, cried out
even, leaping five plus octaves,
he would say, though in truth abouttwo octaves lessstill a journey
heavenward and back, a space that grew
wings on his feet, his voice. Joybecame the thread of mercury
in the mouth of a fevered man.
A lie then, the mythical curethat aged him as he walked bent
high inside the city of angels,
a drop of midnight in his blood.How he hated the confinement
of old tunes, of the small beach town
that was his bliss. These things he made,they shadowed him inside the hidden
bungalow he painted black,
the morning nocturne of its curtains.If no mythology would take him,
there would always be the starless
mandate of the unwritten hymn.To sail off the edge of the world,
off the end of a spool of tape
where it fluttered on its needletick, tick, tick. Picture a moon
deaf above the sirens of dogs.
It's here where the lost songs begin,on the brink of a sleep that fears
no less, that closes its eyes to sing,
Here it comes, at lastno, here. Here.
Copyright © 2008 Bruce Bond All rights reserved
from Colorado Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
Support Verse Daily
Sponsor Verse
Daily!
Home
Archives
Web Monthly Features
About Verse Daily
FAQs
Submit to Verse Daily
Publications Noted & Received
Copyright © 2002-2008 Verse Daily
All Rights Reserved