Hi, I’m doing NaPoWriMo on napowrimo.net.
The challenge is to write a poem a day in April.
For Day 15, I wrote about stoner blues
rock, while listening to one of my favourite bands, Morass of Molasses. I did three drafts in the end.
This is the prompt for the April 15 poem:
I’d like to challenge
you to write a poem inspired by your favourite kind of music. Try to recreate
the sounds and timing of a pop ballad, a jazz improvisation or a Bach fugue.
That could mean incorporating refrains, neologisms and flights of whimsy, or
repeating/inverting lines or ideas – whatever your chosen musical form would
seem to require! Perhaps a good way to start is to listen to your favourite
piece of music and “free-write” for the duration of the piece, and then
use what you’ve written as the building blocks for your poem.
Earth song
Music of the desert
(so they
say),
Gritty, earthy, bass
dripping.
Follow the line into
the wall of sound;
An opening cave lets
you stride right in.
Cymbals race to carry the drums down
deep,
It’s a rhythmic incantation jumping back and forth.
The richer it goes, the
better it rides.
From a lack of love it
revolves into blues.
Baseline humming, drums
unfolding, riff rising.
Follow the guitar rippling
on top of waves.
Dance in a blues-rock summer
guise spinning around,
Flaming across this desert of stoner-fuelled ground.
Deep honey vocals soar
across it all,
Bringing the story of
a woman’s scorn,
Wandering barefoot in
days bereft of music.
Slick, spilling, tingling,
feeling, notes bouncing,
Sticks tapping, guitar
roaming, drums smashing.
Carry me on waves of
rock until
the end
When all I’ll
want is more.
If this song was colour it would be midnight purple,
Rising on waves of watery
incandescence rippling out.
Pied Piper on an acid trip
leads you into the curve,
The bend in the song an
ocean of notes tingling,
I leave my thinking way
behind me in the cloakroom.
It’s an escapist trip up
into the spaces in between;
Just me and
music and nothing else,
Floating in a dream capsule
looking down on this reality,
So far below it
seems not to exist anymore,
And it doesn’t matter; it has no place in the sun;
Nothing is but the hum, the beat and the dance.
Swaying
Tripping
Sinking
Mingling
Breathing
Something different in
these same days.
I’m lifted out above it all.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, April 15, 2020
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