Let me confess, this song was directly inspired by Cordelia’s Dad’s The Frozen Girl; I just loved the long, story-telling ballad, so reminiscent of the Swedish Skillingtryck (things that cost a shilling to print/buy—a broadsheet ballad) which my dad loved and which I used to sing as a child, all sad, all about winter and death and alcoholic fathers letting their daughters freeze to death (or starve to death) while they drank themselves to a stupor. Very cheery stuff.
So, I tried my hand at this particular genre, and since I rarely manage to write any songs shorter than seven minutes, now that I was to write a long song, well, it turned out to be seventeen or so minutes. Long enough to need two YouTube uploads (Part 1 and Part 2).
It really is a tale set to music. More a telling than a song.
Part 1:
Part 2:
The lyrics:
Stephen
Stephen was born
on the First of July
rosy of cheek
and a brightness of eye
all heart and lung
and a breath and a cry
glad to arrive
maybe sad
to have parted
Ten little fingers
and ten little toes
two eyes and ears
and a delicate nose
though with ten brothers
and sisters and those
soon on the way
he was erelong
forsaken
Always the youngest
not counting the twins
threadbares and hand-me-down
patches and pins
asking for little
he cowers and grins
just for a smile
or a pat
on his shoulder
Last to a supper
of gristle and crumb
teasing a hunger
and cold that benumb
left to his own
and his dreams to succumb
into a world
of his hopes
and his demons
Sensing the light
within story and song
finding the words
where the meanings belong
hiding in books
where he read before long
learning to fly
above paper
and letters
Caught by his father
asleep on the page
startled and frightened
he woke to his rage
told by the fist
boys don’t read at your age
told by the cane
you’re no better
than others
Still by the light
of a clandestine flame
Stephen would travel
the worlds he became
seeing no crime
in his lettery game
tracing its ink
and its papery
byways
High over mountains
and oceans he flew
deep within jungles
and deserts he grew
racing by night
for the kingdom he knew
spreading his wings
and his heart
and his hunger
One tiny pencil
an inch maybe two
that and some yellowy
paper would do
home to the words
where his dream would shine through
home to the song
of his soul
and his rising
Sam was his brother
and older by four
Sam was a monger
in secrets and more
he brought the father
one night to the door
showing with pride
what a crime
he’d uncovered
Damn you I’ve told you
you’ll come to no good
Damn you I’ll make you
behave like you should
father was shaking
with rage where he stood
breaking his pencil
then breaking
his fingers
Writhing he moaned
in his fingery pain
black blue and bleeding
they won’t write again
pleading for help
though he whispered in vain
no one would light up
his tormented
darkness
Beggar boy beggar boy
lumps for his hands
Stephen now cowers
and grins where he stands
cap on the ground
for the coin as it lands
ringing the news
he may yet have
his supper
Beggar man beggar man
lumps for his hands
Stephen still cowers
and grins where he stands
cap on the ground
for a coin as it lands
telling anew
he may yet have
his supper
Beggar man dreamer
grown into a tree
roots in the ground
where his feet used to be
willowy branches
forgiving and free
touching the sky
with his heart
and his hunger
Stephen still travels
a kingdom of dream
of ocean and valley
of forest and stream
closing his eyes
he can sense every gleam
nurturing all
into memorized
phrases
Moment by moment
he adds to his song
sentence by sentence
he guides it along
whisper by whisper
he will before long
come to the gate
he has hungered
and prayed for
Stephen would die
on a cold winter’s day
all knots and bark
on his bed where he lay
no one to hold him
or beg him to stay
no one to see
he was glad
to have parted
Sometimes I have the district feeling that this blue planet of ours knows precisely where it has been, precisely where it is, and precisely where it is going.
Other times I’m convinced that she has not a clue, and just spins obliviously on throught he whispering starlight.
The truth, as she’s wont to do, probably settles somewhere in-between.
And so I asked her, and this song is my question.
The lyrics:
Little Earth
Little Earth into empty
which way do you go
are you lost
or have you forgotten
all you used to know
the things you used to know
With your mountains and oceans
forever in tow
on your way
for a far tomorrow
only you could know
that only you could know
Through the whispering starlight
revolving you go
have you thought
where you mean to take us
I would like to know
It struck me once that not only is “beauty skin deep” but so are races. I challenge the bigots of this world to differentiate a white man’s spleen from a black man’s.
There are though, I perceived, other kinds of races, the spiritual kinds. The philosophical race, the creative race, the hating race, the loving race, the wise race, and the foolish race. And a host of others.
And when all is said and done, are not these spiritual races far more important to recognize than the physical.
I, for one, was convinced of this as I wrote this song.
The lyrics:
The Difference
Brown and green and blue
they come some speckled
as with dust from the sun
Clouded some with fear
and wonder wicked some
with lies they have spun
Startled some to see
quite immaculately
a pairing that daemons
would shun
has begun
Brittle white and grey
and cold and folded
to the crust of the earth
Ribs and arms and hands
and heels and skulls
to feed the seedling at birth
Soaring then she grows
in a pattern that goes
from nothing into nothing
of worth
to rebirth
Who will seize the heart
to seek the part
that wonders
Who will seek to tell
to show the shell
that plunders
Who will rise
to know the spell
of earth
Two and two and ten
and ten are legs and
arms and fingers and toes
Ears and eyes and lips
and teeth and tongue
to think that somehow she knows
A liver and a spleen
as alike and unseen
as the races and races
of throes
she bestows
And you find it all
some vast appalling
sameness
As you move to find
your shell some kind of
lameness
I first heard this song in 1968 when Mike Heron and The Incredible String Band sang it on “The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter.” It has stayed with me ever since.
When first I heard it I was mesmerized by it, loved it more than I could tell. Learned to play it pretty much as Mike Heron played it. Years later, I was living on a 36 foot sailboat at the time, I transcribed into this DADA#CE tuning and slowed it down to make it my own.
For the longest time I thought the song had been written by the Pindar Farmily (that’s how it’s billed in the Hangman’s liner notes), but come to find out it’s a traditional song, arranged by the Pindar Family, and now by yours truly.
I hope you enjoy this version.
This is in memory of Susie Watson-Taylor, a wonderful friend who is no longer with us.
The lyrics:
Good Night Song
Lie down my dear sister
Won’t you lie and take your rest
Won’t you lay your head
Upon your savior’s breast
For though I love you
Jesus loves you best
Good night
Good night
Good night
One of these mornings
Bright and early and fine
Good night
Not a cricket, not a spirit
Going to shout me on
Good night
Though I walk through the valley
Of the Shadow of Death
Good night
His rod and his staff
They comfort me
Good night
Oh, John the Wine
He saw the sign
Good night
John said “I’ve seen
A number of signs”
Good night
Tell A for the Ark
That wonderful boat
Good night
You know they build it on the land
Getting water to float
Good night
Tell B for the Beast
At the ending of the wood
Good night
You know it ate all the children
When they wouldn’t be good
Good night
I remember quite well
I remember quite well
Good night
When I was walking in Jerusalem
Just like John
Good night
The Buddhist talks of crossing the river, of leaving the world of sensations and desire and reach a truer shore. Seeing this song approach I was readying to cast my moorings and embark upon an ocean.
I felt, in my soul, in my heart, that I had gathered and learned all I could from the Earth, from the Land, what now remained for me was the Sea.
I felt—my internal compass sang—that I had all I needed (secured below) and that I was now ready for my final journey, that of leaving the world behind and seek only the lasting.
That is how this song came to be.
The lyrics:
I Leave Tonight
I leave tonight
for a distant shore
for a friendly light
I have known before
that I understand
that I understand
With all I need
secured below
I know indeed
that I shall go
to that distant land
to that distant land
that I shall know
stars and water
at my command
My one ship fleet
is tugging at the lines
at my hands and feet
at these last confines
to be on our way
to be on our way
So I hoist her sails
in a compact with air
and if nothing fails
and her wind stays fair
I shall reach that day
I shall reach that day
and so I fare
‘cross the water
and far away:
One small boat
on an ocean afloat
on a light
One small star
in an always afar
in the night
One small heart
on a wave to be part
of a sea
One small notion
to venture this ocean
with me
And as I gaze
upon that shore
and wonder what
I came here for
Looking at myself
I’m amazed to see
The wind and the ocean
the boat and the motion
is me
I don’t remember which came first, the music or the lyrics. Looking back, perhaps they arrived hand in hand.
It was an image. I’m not sure from where. Just a brief scene. You by the fire, I in the room, reading or watching the fire; perhaps I was saying something.
You heard (or not), rose and turned to face me. Fingered your hair a little, then hesitated, as if you meant say something. Instead you smiled, and vanished.
Into thin air.
Breaking my heart. Mesmerizing my eyes.
The lyrics:
The Fading
Silent by the fire
you rose to retire
slowly as you fingered
your hair and then lingered
and then you turned
to me and you smiled
at what you saw
and what I saw
was how you faded
into leaving
my heart in despair
my eyes in awe
Although I served time (twenty some years in all) in Corporate America—and most of it in sales organizations—I never ceased to wonder at how seriously people took the whole thing, and how ultimately useless all that activity was.
I remember telling my sales manager once, “I don’t want to have the only inscription on my tomb stone read He Sold Lots; and I remember the spiritual shock I got when he, in all earnestness and somewhat offended, answered me “Why not?” Needless to say, I did not work for him long after that. Not the right spirit, not the killer instinct.
The corporate sales environment brings into sharp focus a horrible Earthly truth: nothing here can live (at least nothing above algae on the food chain) unless something else dies to feed it, be that vegetable or animal. And for every sales contract won, several others lose it.
It’s like a very bad cosmic joke that has long since outlived any amusement.
Here, then, is my ode to the Sales Professional.
The lyrics:
The Plunder
All wheels in motion
you race for the kill
to corner and close
before someone else will
so you plot and you plunder
you swindle and steal
with never a moment
to wonder
can this be real
You buy low you sell high
to profit and grow
you climb and you dampen
those squeaks from below
as you trample asunder
and conquer and fight
with never a moment
to wonder
can this be right
chased by the lightning
behind you
hiding the truth it
may find you
shake from the thunder
and shiver and cry
for one fleeting moment
you wonder
if you will die
Then when the last
of the seasons has fled
when rivers and mountains
and forests are dead
and a brown fishless sea under
dark birdless sky
says money can’t feed you
why wonder
that you will die
No dark is too deep
and no night is too long
to serve as a prison
where creatures
like you belong
This song started out as the two opening chords. I played them over and over again knowing that the opening line was approaching. Closer and closer the longer I played. Then one morning, they arrived, fully-fledged.
Now, I don’t know whether this love song is addressed to an angel, or a to non-existent ideal, or to distant memory, or to someone I’ve met but not quite recognized. I don’t know whether the one-way conversation is aimed at dream or reality, distant or not.
All I know is that when I wrote the words I meant every single one of them from the bottom of my heart.
The lyrics:
The Conversation
It’s all I can do
to keep myself
from falling apart
I see your face
in a thousand different places
Though I know it was
long ago
this dream refuses to part
And I still look
for the faintest trace
to blaze the way and to
lead me back to the
long lost light of my heart
In my sky you laugh
and twinkle bright
in every star
yet so far
yet so far
It’s a one way
conversation
a little strange I know
and in a voice
unsuitable to hoisting
We didn’t mean to
ever part
but when we had to let go
it didn’t leave
a choice for me
but trace the light of a
wind you sighed in a
sky you knew I would know
In my thoughts you see
and soothe me
sensitive and true
dancing through
dancing through
Down my darkened aeon
I have loved
none other than you
It’s been your eyes
that have shown me all my guises
that’s why I keep
on trying all
these words to help let me through
and as they rise
I imagine they will
find their wings and will
find your wind and will
find a harboring view
In my dream you care
and comfort me
and what I knew
to be true
to be true
In my sky you laugh
and twinkle bright
in every star
yet so far
yet so far
Every now and then it just strikes me over the head, lead hammer, full swing, brains on the floor, heavy impact: we live in a society almost entirely designed for consumption.
A society—if not a world—where more is everything. Where more is beauty. Where more is love. Where more is life. Or else.
And like sheep—incapable of escape—we drink.
While, nothing could be farther from the truth, were we only to look.
Since I am convinced that we fight the evils of this universe with art, I collected myself and fell into song. This is the result—the glorified machine.
The lyrics:
Enjoy
I’ve heard about virgin scenery
somewhere beyond the machinery
but I’m fine right here
won’t let it get to me
I have no goals and I make no plans
I fan the fire with one night stands
where I leave no hope
and will suffer no demands
I laugh a lot
and I sample and I sing
I feed on empty hearts
but that doesn’t mean a thing
I wish I could sample all I see
that everybody would come to me
with their friendly smiles
and their generosity
I believe that I am what I eat
that I can taste everything I meet
and I’ll drink to that
for the world is my treat
I sense a lot
and I quiver and I sting
I don’t know who I am
but that doesn’t mean a thing
It’s a consumer’s paradise
it is my dream and if you’re nice
enough to feel it
you will never quite repeal it
I know
it’s an incredible mistake
to try to fight it or to fake
us out and leave it
cause we’ll never quite believe
you would
try or ever count on getting through
if what you plan and hope to do
is find some reason
in this all consuming season
we brought
to get you firmly by the throat
and we do not even remotely
care you think
we have served it up
and you will drink
You pray a lot
and you grovel and you cling
You say you’ve had enough
but that doesn’t mean a thing
