The Space Between the Notes
Feb 13 2014


Why is it that women
fall for musicians
I wonder?
If only I could play.
A drummer, I’d say.

Is it the romance
of the dangerous man
the bad boy?

Is it the power of song
the human voice?

Or that saxophone,
with its serpent's curve
bent, and broken note?
His finger-tip hold,
light, and firm
and in control?

Or the bass player
with his hollow brooding chords?
Whose owner must be deep
and taciturn,
a complicated man
whose hypnotically beating heart
seems unknowable.

Or the cute one

on lead guitar, backing vocals?
Who stands out-front
loves to be noticed;
the centre of attention,
whose sweetly touching harmonies

are generous, nevertheless.

Or the singer
with the rough raw edge?
An imperfect voice
from too much hard living.
Who knows the power of restraint,
holding back, then letting go
when you're almost crazy for it.

Trouble is
the music grows old
and the road ages a man.
And the adulation of one
can never make up
for the overpowering love
of the audience,
beyond the dazzle of light
sweating, stamping, hollering.

So your life together
will be more like jazz;
a band of two,
making smooth music
only you will hear.
The give-and-take, the listening
the space between the notes.
But without the willing fans
and punch-drunk travel,
bad motels
and morning-afters.

You will scat
and he'll accompany.
A torch song
with soul, and angst,
its normal share

of sadness.


On the brink of Valentine's day, it appears I've written a kind of love poem. Not that I had any intention, starting out.

Although if you have to play an instrument, or hold a tune, I don't stand a chance! I am secretly envious of musicians: the bad boys, who always get the girl. So in this poem, I get to live vicariously. If you hear Paul McCartney on lead guitar, and Rod Stewart singing, then the poem may just have worked. (Actually, it's the best jazz singers who are exceptional at this. You can hear the restrained power in their voice; feel the unbearable tension in the holding back, and the release when they finally let go. The trouble with most rockers is not just that they don't have the vocal chops, but that they're full-on from the get-go.)

The same mythology suggests that women also fall for poets, who are either charmingly sensitive, or irresistibly passionate, or in desperate need of mothering. Not true. (The falling, that is!)

I'm much more jazz than pop (actually, not at all pop!), so I'm glad the poem ends with the rockers losing out to the torch song, the smooth jazz, the quiet soulful duo. In a way, the poem follows the trajectory of relationship: starting with lust, passion infatuation; then ending with the mature love of attachment. And it's not fairy tale love, either: it may not have the bleakness of empty sex with groupies, or the fog of endless travel; but it acknowledges the angst and sadness -- the hard work -- of real life relationships. (Not that I would know, since my significant other involves the unconditional love and obedience(??!) of a Labrador retriever; which is the diametric opposite of hard work!)