Posted by
Deb Beroset in
Featured Articles,
Ramblings on
11 24th, 2009 |
6 responses Scribble singing: An ode to transitory thrills, ephemeral beauty and the fleeting nature of life
I don’t know about you, but sometimes I’m a little prone to wanting to hang onto things as they are.
That might come as a surprise to some who know me. “You?” I can imagine them saying, hands on hips like a row of skeptical Rockettes, their left eyebrows all cocked in unison. I have, after all, developed something of a reputation for changing course in life the way some people change their knickers – one jaunty kick and it’s into the basket, on with the new, and away I go.
And yet…
There are moments I wish I could re-experience. Places I’ll likely never see again. People I love who have drifted out of my life or are no longer with us. Life’s like that. But I resist it. It shouldn’t be that way, I think. It just shouldn’t.
But it is.
I am happiest when I just let all that in. And have it be the way it’s meant to be. When I dive fully into the moment and swim in it and gulp the air and rub up against life like a happy pup rolling in the grass for no reason. I can remember the instant I got that years ago, when my younger daughter, Simone, was just a wee tyke and we were having a perfectly ordinary morning – or so I thought – and something extraordinary happened for me, thanks to her:
We’re minutes from the preschool, my head abuzz
with all the wrong words, my brain straining
for a better way to say what it is that needs to be said
in this poem trying to push its way out of me,
and I jump, startled, when Simone, face pressed
to her window, gazing at the sour man in the car
idling next to ours, takes a sharp breath and breaks out
in song, her voice clear and fearless, a four-year-old
lark serenading stalled traffic with her other-world dialect,
the lyrics all sounds never sung before.
The words using her as their instrument are so fragile,
so dragonfly-wing transparent, seconds later I’m
unable to hear in my mind just what the secret syllables were.
What was that little song, sweetie? I wait for the pre-K,
crayoned title: Kittens, or My Best Friend, Ashley.
Scribble singing, she answers, with a small bird-chest sigh,
as if she were telling me something I’d been told
many times. Scribble singing, of course, how is it I didn’t
know that? An unspoiled soul’s magic scat, private sky-writing,
beyond-language smoke rings let fly in soprano puffs,
their soul aspiration the brief pleasure of feeling the lips
shape strange, loopy sweetness, tickling the unprepared ear
with their bright, radiating noise, the tired heart
treated to a comforting pat, a good-natured nudge, a childlike
kiss. And then the libretto’s erased forever, of course,
its brilliant, ringing vapor dissipated as it must be,
its transitory thrill distilled to an ebbing echo
in the car. So quiet. My daughter, having long since moved
on to other wonders, looks heavenward, puzzled, then
to me with the question: Why are the clouds closing?
Because it’s going to rain, I say, disappointed, back-ended
by grief there on the highway, the foggy smudges
of my own scribble songs too faint now to make out,
though I’m fairly certain I can almost recall what it’s like
to know that goombah-mah-cha-cha is chewy and tart,
whereas a booley-looley, as any fool knows, will coat
your tongue like thick honey. I wish
I were like her, I wish I could love the impermanence,
the ghostiness, the slip-slidiness of words, of things,
of people, and I hope for her sake
she holds off that untamable love’s flight
as long as her wise, brave self is able, that it will be
lifetimes before she loses her scribble-singing voice,
before she’s indifferent, unmindful, forgets the poetry—
God-years before she’s unable to find the words
she turns and recites to me now: I want to go
to a parade today, please, or a fair.
I’m growing! Look how big my feet are this morning!
If you grew, mama, you’d be a giant, bump your head
on the ceiling. You’d be taller than trees, too big for the sky.
May your scribble-singing voice be ever at the ready, and may you sing many joyful songs with it, however out of tune. And come happy hour, have a booley-looley on me.
Live lusciously.
beautifully designed website, full of elegant, often touching surprises. i loved this poem.
Beautiful.
I’m so glad you liked the poem and the site in general, and I thank you for saying so, Mr. So and So. Your comment made my day.
Thank you, Hannah! Your support is ever appreciated.
I usually don’t ordinarily post on many Blogs, still I just has to say thank you… keep up the amazing work. Ok regrettably its time to get to school.
Thank you so much for the kind words. It means a lot to know that there are people out there such as yourself reading — with generosity of spirit — and taking the time to reach out. I hope to hear from you again.