We came for salvation
We came for family
We came for all that’s good that’s how we’ll walk away
We came to break the bad
We came to cheer the sad
We came to leave behind the world a better wayAnd I would give up everything
And if you were to come up clean
And see you shine so bright in a world of woe
And they may pay us off in fame
But that is not why we came
And if it compromises truth then we will goWe came for salvation
We came for family
We came for all that’s good that’s how we’ll walk away
We came to break the bad
We came to cheer the sad
We came to leave behind the world a better way
Category: Music
“Caged Bird” by Maya Angelou
A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Maya Angelou, “Caged Bird” from Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing? Copyright © 1983 by Maya Angelou
***
“Someday Sparrow” by Laura Cantrell
“The Gauze of Flowers, A Love Poem” by Olena Kalytiak Davis
Remember when we couldn’t name it
because it was a meadow
wild with tulips, both bright
as snow and dull as fire?
Driving in circles to find
the right spot for our love, then
using a chair? My heart was still
an artichoke, layered and prickly
But you kept making me nest my face
in that one thick bouquet.
And just this morning my love
was briefly stuck in my throat
as I remember all the soil
and sadness, remembered seeing you
on certain streets and corners, remembered
all the rubble and clang. Remember
how it is and isn’t fragile?
How it speaks in ears and fingers
takes days and hours still
it wants nothing and it wants more?
And just this morning
the flowers you brought home drank
in the sunrise, they fleshed themselves out
the way people do, shaking
the cold from their collars
as they move toward the fire,
rubbing together their hands, kindling
it back. Some days
we want our love to be fleshy.
But some days it’s transparent.
It’s like gauze.
It is and isn’t fragile.
I dare you to name it.
I dare you to remember
the rubble and clang.
”
— Olena Kalytiak Davis, “The Gauze of Flowers, A Love Poem”, in
And Her Soul Out of Nothing (The University of Wisconsin Press, 1997)
*
“The Flowers” by Regina Spektor
“Things I have loved, I’m allowed to keep . . .”
“The Blues” by Billy Collins
Much of what is said here
must be said twice,
a reminder that no one
takes an immediate interest in the pain of others.
Nobody will listen, it would seem,
if you simply admit
your baby left you early this morning
she didn’t even stop to say good-bye.
But if you sing it again
with the help of the band
which will now lift you to a higher,
more ardent and beseeching key,
people will not only listen;
they will shift to the sympathetic
edges of their chairs,
moved to such acute anticipation
by that chord and the delay that follows,
they will not be able to sleep
unless you release with one finger
a scream from the throat of your guitar
and turn your head back to the microphone
to let them know
you’re a hard-hearted man
but that woman’s sure going to make you cry.
“The Blues” by Billy Collins from Sailing Alone Around the Room. © Random House, 2002.
***
“Why I Sing the Blues” performed by B.B. King
“Learning to Read” by Franz Wright
If I had to look up every fifth or sixth word
so what. I looked them up.
I had nowhere important to be.
My father was unavailable, and my mother
looked like she was about to break,
and not into blossom, each time I spoke.
My favorite was The Iliad. True,
I had trouble pronouncing the names;
but when was I going to pronounce them, and
to whom?
My stepfather maybe?
Number one, he could barely speak English –
two, he had sufficient cause
to smirk or attack
without prompting from me.
Loneliness boredom and fear
my motivation
fiercely fueled.
I get down on my knees and thank God for them.
Du Fu, the Psalms, Whitman, Rilke.
Life has taught me
to understand books.
“Learning to Read” by Franz Wright via The New Yorker
“Everyday I Write the Book” by Elvis Costello
Words ... for the Time Being 