1. Why do we sing some of our favorite songs and not others?
2. Why do we enjoy revisiting the same movies, novels and stories?
3. Why do I believe poetry will be revived in my lifetime?
All of these queries can be answered with one word.
Now the fun starts. Please take a few minutes to listen to these two songs:
"Christmas in Prison" by John Prine:
"Cactus" by Ferron:
For this experiment to work, you'll need to take a break for at least half an hour. Watch some television, read a book or magazine, check out some other site or [gasp!] chat with actual humans. When you return, please scroll down past this picture, honoring our Canuck friends on their national day:
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| Our niece, Nurel, celebrating Canada Day near Vancouver, B.C. |
Back so soon? Mahvelous.
Now try to sing the two songs you heard. Don't worry if you can't carry a tune in a basket. This ain't the Met. Just give it a whirl. If you must, try reciting the lyrics. When you're done, please scroll down again.
If you are like the 98+% of the population who have taken this test lacking perfect pitch or an eidactic memory, you probably found "Christmas in Prison" much easier to reconstruct than "Cactus" . Why so?
The answer lies in the lyrics. Start with John Prine's "Christmas in Prison":
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| John Prine |
We had turkey and pistols carved out of wood
I dream of her always even when I don't dream
Her name's on my tongue and her blood's in my strings
Wait a while eternity
Old Mother Nature's got nothin' on me
Come to me, run to me, come to me now
I'm rollin' my sweetheart
I'm flowin' by God
She reminds me of a chess game with someone I admire
Or a picnic in the rain after a prairie fire
Her heart is as big as this whole goddamn jail
And she's sweeter than saccharine at a drug store sale
Wait a while eternity
Old Mother Nature's got nothin' on me
Come to me, run to me, come to me now
I'm rollin' my sweetheart
I'm flowin' by God
The search light in the big yard turns 'round with the gun
And spotlights the snowflakes like the dust in the sun
It's Christmas in prison there'll be music tonight
I'll probably get homesick, I love you, Good night
Wait a while eternity
Old Mother Nature's got nothin' on me
Come to me, run to me, come to me now
I'm rollin' my sweetheart
I'm flowin' by God
The beats highlight the heavy accentual tetrameter, often making it sound anapestic. The errors (e.g. "Or a picnic in the rain after a prairie fire") are few and funny, fitting in well with the tragicomic¹ theme. What makes this a masterpiece are the sonic touches: "Christmas in prison", "eternity...Mother Nature", "dust in the sun", "come...run...come", "rolling...flowing", etc.
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| Earl the Squirrel's Rule #20 |
"Cactus" is a pleasure to hear but doesn't inspire covers by other artists.
It's been a year since you left home for higher ground. In the distance I hear a hoot owl ask the only question I have found to be worthy of the sound it makes as it breaks the silence of your old town. These letters are another way to love you.
It takes trouble, and it takes courage to be free. But you 'll find, it you are soft enough, love will hang around for free. And the coldest bed I found does not hold one but it will hold three. I hope you never have to know what that can mean.
It's safe to say I took the long and winding path. And were it not for loving friendships who knows how long I would have lasted. You're young one day but youth is rude and while you watch it walks right past and then...hey...you get your chance to think like me.
When I was young I was in service to my pain. On sunny days you'd find me walking miles to look for rain. And as many times I swapped it all just to hop a moving train. Looking back, it was a most expensive way to get around.
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| Ferron |
And I found that all the world could love you save for one. And I don't know why it is, but that kiss will be the haunted one. You'll pine and weep and you'll lose good sleep and you'll think your life has come undone, until you learn to turn and spurn that bitter wind.
Because it'll probably be the one you least expect to, who will wager through your storm with you, who will give your fears respect... who will melt your burden down...though you probably don't want that yet, still...the odds fall sweet in favor to an open heart.
Seems to me the tools for being human are wicked crude. They're not so slick and smooth and shiny as some stranger might allude. And while your longest night might test you, you don't be scared of solitude. And remember what is shared is also true.
Because there's a place where the water races wide. And you could be hard pressed (in the muck of time) just trying to reach the other side. You learn to find the only way, or you learn to say you tried. It seems to me a lot of little towns were made that way.
Now while I'm at it...let me tell you about the moon. Because I heard some people talking, looks like we're probably going to have to move there soon. All I know is the face it shows at midnight is not the one it shows at noon. But I bet it's a standing kind of wistful from over there.
In a word, I heard that life's a cactus tree. And should you find a way to break it's skin, won't you have a drink for me. But...if you're standing near a cactus, you're probably where you shouldn't be. Isn't this why you left your home, though you love me.
Now when I imagine life is only time and space...then I guess I've seen the best of it upon your tender, loving face. And the faith that you bestowed in me gives me a solid sense of place. I learn to say...Fire, Water, Earth and Air...I learn to say Fire, Water, Earth and Air...I learn to say Fire, Water, Earth and Air...and I'll see you there.
The words to "Cactus" are less rhythmic and compressed, showing little sonic awareness. They are far more emotive and original, to be sure. Not many authors today produce lines like these:
You learn to find the only way, or you learn to say you tried. It seems to me a lot of little towns were made that way.
...or these:
And the coldest bed I found does not hold one but it will hold three. I hope you never have to know what that can mean.
Nevertheless, we get the sense that we are listening to a sprawling narrative set to music. This leads to a quirk: we will sing "Christmas in Prison" in the shower but "Cactus" will be bookmarked more often.
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| Earl the Squirrel's Rule #105 |
Prine makes us want to be in the chorus. He is far and away the better lyricist, as his commercial success [relative to Ferron's] indicates.
To re-encounter fine prose or a Ferron song, we need to carry something: a book, laptop, IPod or cell phone.²
To re-encounter a song or poem we've memorized we need only our brain, something that, unless we're in a voting booth, we seem to have with us at all times. Nothing is more convenient or handy than our memory.
I believe poetry will have a revival³ simply because it is more portable than prose.
Footnotes:
¹ - We should acknowledge that poignancy and humor are a difficult combination to achieve.
² - Along with our acronym-peppered language, our technology is getting more compact. Why shouldn't our mode of speech do the same?
³ - I am well aware that this is a minority position. The public doesn't care, performers think their friends constitute an audience and the print world is still in denial about poetry's death.
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Earl Gray, Esquirrel
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