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From: Steve Brown
Date: 05 Sep 2000
Time: 10:51:14
Remote Name: spider-tf064.proxy.aol.com
This is one of my own personal favorites of my disability poems. It was published in VOYAGES: LIFE JOURNEYS several years ago.
SONATA IN THE LINGERING KEYS OF LIFE
I.
Found Jim Morrison wailing at me on the radio last night: "C'mon, baby, light my fire," Soothed-voice, throaty, alive, except, of course, he is not...
1969, a magical year in so many of our lives, A number tipping the consciousness only after meditating upon those thirty years gone, except, of course, they are not quite thirty years gone...
Morrison, Joplin, Hendrix, Candles dying through flames bright.
Memories intense, Lives vivid, Whole notes remain.
II.
Idol conversations? Wordphrases streaming daily now If only I would listen-- But I am.
Voices searching, seeking me out, Not those of gods and goddesses, but frail and mighty warriors.
Sometimes screaming from beds as tightly bound, as completely free, as prisons.
Sometimes screaming from conferences, festivals of the soul; An only outlet for many of thy voices.
III.
Ali Baba's magic words barely open any doors for my people, whose voice do we have? the lame and the halt, the biblical meek, the Reagan rejects roaming the streets.
Some slaves of old Found comfort in the words of glorious spirituals and glory in the future of the spirit.
Their gateways handed down to the trodden of a new century.
Shimmering hope-- heaven unbridled by earthly restrictions.
IV.
The greatest compliment you could once bestow: "You don't seem any different to me"-- In my eyes you are normal-- meaning you are like me somersaulted into an insult while you weren't looking. What makes you, white man, black man, red woman, yellow woman, brown child, rainbow race, Believe that putting two feet on the ground, Waving two arms in the air, Having a face unmarred except caked, Thinking in a straight line Or famed, artistic, eccentric convolution Spells normality, Meaning if you are not like me You had better want to be like me... Normalized?
V.
Rocky, jagged outcroppings Snagging us. One-liners dropped into a history book or two Ed will one day make it into your seventh-grader's notes But Morrison, Joplin, and Hendrix I don't see replaced by Zola, Zanella, or Follin-Mace.
VI.
The world has begun to give me a gift of recognition of my poetry, my zeal and carefully-planned idolatry.
Pain poems magnify, intensify Perhaps they'll never rinse away; Perhaps my purpose, or a part of its part, Is to have this conversation To hear this voice which has found others' listening and others' straining to hear and others' needing to hear and face their own fear.
VII.
Naked truths don't lie... Still who will believe this difficult excursion? Not paint it with sugar-coated candied explanations of good-heartedness, god-plannedness? Who will just listen nod their head in acknowledgement, contemplation, recognition?
Who will not listen rush to aggravation, defense, censorship?
"Break on through to the other side."
VIII.
BREATHING
My poetry, like my body... survives.
Steven E. Brown, Copyright 1996