National Poetry Week: 7

I don't know why critics say that we've all lost touch with poetry, because isn't good songwriting poetry? Anyone who pays attention to good lyrics is interacting with poetry. There's no real difference.

I mean, it's all a matter of our changing lifestyles and technology, don't you think? Over a century ago, Anna Akhmatova (Russian pre- and post-revolutionary poet) published her first volume of poetry, on an unrequited-love theme. It became so famous that people had a game they played at dinner parties, where one person would quote the first line of one of the poems, then the next person would provide the next, and so forth. But back then, there were no ipods, no home stereo systems, and sheet music would have been quite expensive. People read poetry volumes, or read out loud to each other.

These days, if you wanted to, you could play the same game with Beatles lyrics. And why not? The one who forgets the next line has to drink -- but I bet we'd get a fair way through the song. Poetry isn't really popular anymore. But music is, and it fills all the same spaces. And we remember the lyrics just like our grandparents remembered poetry. They had to learn it by rote at school. We didn't. We listened to the radio, watched Countdown and Rage et al until the lyrics were just as deeply embedded.

Everyone has their favorite singer/songwriter who provides poetry to their life. I've got my own list that changes every week. Of the top of my head today it includes Leonard Cohen, Ben Fold, Kristen Hersh, Suzanne Vega, Kristina Olsen and Baterz. One of my favorite 'poetic' albums is Elvis Costello's King of America, when he was moving from his British phase through to country music en route to jazz (and, thank goodness, back again). He's got lots of albums with lots of good lyrics, but this is one of those 'complete' albums, where every song works individually and together. I keep putting it away, then dragging it back out for another listen, like re-reading my favorite book.

Here's one:

Brilliant Mistake

He thought he was the king of America,
Where they pour Coca Cola just like vintage wine.
Now I try hard not to become hysterical,
But I'm not sure if I am laughing or crying...
I wish that I could push a button
And talk in the past and not the present tense,
And watch this hurtin' feeling disappear
Like it was common sense.
It was a fine idea at the time,
Now it's a brilliant mistake.

She said that she was working for the ABC news--
It was as much of the alphabet as she knew how to use.
Her perfume was unspeakable,
It lingered in the air
Like her artificial laughter,
Her mementos of affairs.
Oh, I said, I see you know him--
Isn't that very fortunate for you.
And she showed me his calling card,
He came third or fourth and there were more than one or two.
He was a fine idea at the time,
Now he's a brilliant mistake.

He thought he was the king of America,
But it was just a boulevard of broken dreams;
A trick they do with mirrors and with chemicals,
The words of love in whispers
And the axe of love in screams.
I wish that I could push a button
And talk in the past and not the present tense,
And watch this lovin' feeling disappear
Like it was common sense.
I was a fine idea at the time,
Now I'm a brilliant mistake.


Here's another:

Little Palaces

In chocolate town, all the trains are painted brown,
On the silver paper of the wrapper.
There's a dapper little man
And he wears a wax moustache
That he twists with nicotine fingers
As he drops his cigarette ash.
And someone comes and sweeps it up
And then he doffs his cap,
And there's a rat in someone's bedroom,
And they're shutting someone's trap,
And they'll soon be pulling down the little palaces.

And the doors swing back and forward, from the past into the present,
And the bedside crucifixion turns from wood to phosphorescent.
And they're moving problem families from the south up to the north,
Mother's crying over some soft soap opera divorce,
And you say you didn't do it, but you know you did of course,
And they'll soon be pulling down the little palaces.

It's like shouting in a matchbox, filled with plasterboard and hope,
Like a picture of Prince William in the arms of John the Pope.
There's a world of good intentions, and pity in their eyes,
The sedated homes of England, are theirs to vandalize.

So you knock the kids about a bit, because they've got your name,
And you knock the kids about a bit, until they feel the same.
And they feel like knocking down the little palaces.

You're the twinkle in your daddy's eye, a name you spray and scribble,
You made the girls all turn their heads, and in turn they made you miserable.
To be the heir apparent, to the kingdom of the invisible.

So you knock the kids about a bit, because they've got your name,
And you knock the kids about a bit, until they feel the same.
And they feel like knocking down the little palaces.

Elvis Costello

Oh, I know it's different without the music. But there no doubt it's poetry. I think you should celebrate the end of National Poetry Week by playing your favorite lyrics... and singing along.