*

*

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

R.I.P. R.E.M.

I remember when my friend Roger brought his copy of "Chronic Town" to school so that I could sneak it home and give it a listen. (That sort of music and album art being frowned upon in our house at the time. And thanks, Roger, for REM, Love and Rockets, Husker Du, The Church, and The Chameleons, among others.) I was not immediately enthralled with "Wolves, Lower," and lifted the needle halfway through the song. But three seconds into "Gardening at Night," I was hooked - bad. There was a time when I considered REM my favorite band. That time was well in the rearview by the time the horror of "Shiny Happy People" came along and Michael Stipe started actually stringing full comprehensible sentences together in interviews. But in those early years, Stipe's mumbled, impressionistic ramblings draped over beautiful jangly guitars and tight American rhythms moved in and out of my days and nights like a weird, seamless, subconscious soundtrack. Those times are slipping into a Gaussian-blurred and faded snapshot of recollection these days, but that doesn't diminish the brilliance and audacity of musical art so simultaneously intricate and simple that it stands unembarrassed among the greatest this nation has ever had to offer to the earth. So, because of that, today I'm a little sad. The harsh reality is, they should have called it quits a few albums ago. And everyone who's honest knows it. But the truth also is, they were once an American treasure.

"Trust in your calling, make sure your calling's true."

R.I.P. R.E.M.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Song for Early September

Summer’s last sigh
Bending low then lying down — lost
And unconcerned —
For the long, familiar sleep
Of iced shores
And dark, lovely spaces
That find themselves beneath
Tree-fall and trestle;

Leaves
That crowd riverbanks:
That bruise the traces
And railways and blacktop with thick gold
And thin red,
And hesitate and shake
In air and light too suddenly cold
For short sleeves or laughing out loud;

The truth of what is
Pulled from last year’s threadbare
Coat sleeves and pockets
And given to the wind
And the present dusk
Sliding slowly down from
Hat to boot
Where shoulders end
And prairies launch themselves
Unembarrassed
Upward
To the nameless sky
And outward
To the yearless horizon.

I come by these things honestly,
Stumbled upon in early fall.

When my years are
As weary as my miles,
And never far
From the edge-lands of fire
That stand
Against armies of unseen eyes.

When all things are edge, and canvas, and slate.

When lift bridges still,
And all crossings grow as silent
As the space between the stars,
And the time for listening, watching, waiting
Has passed.