The Green Wave

Wrote this poem a long time ago and just came upon it today.

Music
Do we ever hear
the sun’s real melodies?
I look up and see
one whole note
dangled all day.
Seasons change the volume.
Moon, at least,
slides along the scale
as the month ages,
dies and sounds again.
Silver sharps -
some find them less
than honest,
some stand face up
all night
listening
with their body’s ear.

Today as I rushed off to meet a student I heard a snatch of melody: “…your eyes like stars above, It’s just the thought of you, the very thought of you…” and turned to see a compact little man leaning into the March wind, his face taken up with the song. It surprised me that he didn’t stop singing when he saw me turn, and I was pleased by that, because I am forever cutting myself off mid-trill when I realize that I’ve been singing without conscious permission say, in line for the ATM or pumping gas. This pinching-off feels a bit like a light abruptly switched off or gossip halted when its subject enters the room.

Recently I was coming down the stairs in a parking garage, belting “The Month of January” in complete and utter unselfconsciousness – a delightful state if ever there were one – when a lady opened a door onto the stairs and remarked somewhat drily, “At least somebody’s happy.” Instantly I was recalled to myself, to my work, to the environment of academic irony, and I felt as though I really were wearing a lampshade.

But my street-singer today showed more gumption. Far from stoppering the flow of notes, this man actually increased the volume, “the thought of you – my love…” and picked up the pace to pass me. There goes a bit of healthy defiance, I thought – and so much the opposite of my self-editing – that I couldn’t help but admire his verve. His swing put a twist of lemon into a day previously swingless. Thank you, singer. Don’t stop for anything.