He reaps what others sow
when he plays the tune
that only the ghosts can hear.
The leftover lives that others spilled
at his feet were not his blood to bear
and yet,
and yet.
I listen to that music
and can find
nothing
but a command to peace,
nothing
but a desire for rest,
nothing
but a hope where hope had never before been allowed to be.
I listen to his music
and can find
nothing
but gentle calm and familiar warmth.
Let him banish me,
let him ruin me,
let him have me,
let him anything me —
it is worth it
for a single note from his lips.
Night Music
What has caused this recent burst of creative activity? Is it any of my business? Who knows?
Depression lifted enough for me to find my voice again.
I missed your comment. I’m glad the clouds have lifted. It comes at me also. Hang in there and take your time. Enjoy the sunlight when it comes. You are not alone.
Terry
I really very much enjoyed this poem. It’s like a thought before I’ve had in my own mind while listening to Bill Withers, or Marvin Gaye, or maybe someone else who bears witness to pain (and wasn’t it Emerson who talked about your rejected thoughts returning to you…
Here’s the actual quote by Emerson himself, which I just now looked up:
“In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts: they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty.”)
My point in quoting Emerson is just to say that I really liked what you have to say in this poem, and the first line hit me hard, right away:
“He reaps what others sow
when he plays the tune
that only the ghosts can hear.”
And then the rest of the poem, which as the hearer you find in the music peace, goodness, “gentle calm and familiar warmth”. I identify. Someone else entered the fire, and returned with a torch of beauty, not pain.
Thank you.
I’m humbled by such a thoughtful comment — thank you for your words.