FOREVER GREEN

August 5, 2011 at 2:13 am (Bob Dylan, Duncan Gillies MacLaurin, Leonard Cohen)

Duncan Gillies MacLaurin  —Open Mic at StAnza 2011/photo: Long Nguyen

The following is by Scarriet guest artist Duncan Gillies MacLaurin:

In the last fifty years song lyrics have become the major form of poetical expression, yet spoken-word poets tend to dismiss the notion that the writers of these lyrics are poets proper. Even song-writing icons such as Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Sting, etc. are widely seen by spoken-word poets as merely distant relatives. There is envy at work here. A poet recently told me:

“I often envy singer/songwriters because they can take liberties with both rhyme and meter that poets often can’t. Almost any poem/song can be cured on vocal delivery. Extra beats can be compressed and slant (and even non) rhymes can be rhymed…or not.”

Thus songwriters are en masse perceived by spoken-word poets as having a much easier job. And that is especially irksome in view of the dazzling accolades and monetary rewards Dylan and Cohen et al. receive.  The spoken-word poets have only way of punishing song-writers: exclusion from the inner circle of poetry.

This is very unfortunate for everyone, I think. We should be building bridges and inspiring each other rather than insisting on isolating ourselves in supposedly unsullied domains. I was pretty keen on poetry at school, but my interest would have foundered without the inspiration of pop music, through which I was drawn back to poetry.

I often hear people say that a song lyric can only be poetry if it can stand alone, i.e. without the sung version. Absolute poppycock! If it can, fine, but where’s the problem if it can’t? Have we not ears? All it means is that the reader has to refer to the song in order to be able to appreciate the poem more fully. Likewise, many people say an ekphrastic poem should be able to stand alone, i.e. without the illustration that inspired it. Again, absolute poppycock! Have we not eyes? Again, the reader can merely refer to the illustration.

Here’s a sonnet that has the photo that inspired it attached as well as a sung version: http://www.e-gym.dk/index.php?studenter-2010

In this case neither the photo nor the sung version is necessary for the sonnet, but they certainly add to its effect. And they don’t dilute the poetry; on the contrary, they highlight it.

I write poems and I write song lyrics, and often it’s difficult to see which are which. It’s easier to think of them as both. I would certainly rather sing my sonnets than recite them. Is that improper? If someone would rather hear them spoken than sung, then that’s fine by me, but I’m not buying the notion that singing them is somehow less poetical than reciting them.

I have been lucky to find e-zine editors that have welcomed sung versions of my sonnets. Here are some examples: http://www.the-chimaera.com/May2008/Poems/MacLaurin.html http://www.barefootmuse.com/archives/issue10/maclaurin.htm

A few of the poets I know online have shown great enthusiasm for these versions. But they’ve become wary of expressing it publicly as the general reception has been chilly. Guitar and song is simply not comme il faut. Thus the editor of the sonnet e-zine 14 by 14 was dismayed when I sent him a sung version of a sonnet he’d agreed to publish. To his mind poetry ought not to be sung. I considered withdrawing my sonnet but decided to record a spoken version instead: http://www.14by14.com/Sonnets/March2010/Regret.html

Here’s the version he rejected: http://www.myspace.com/572041222

When one editor recently suggested I record both a spoken and a sung version of a sonnet, I very willingly obliged: http://www.the-flea.com/Issue14/NoBloodyWay.html But again, the spoken version was preferred by the majority of the poets who commented. However, it turns out that most non-poets prefer the sung version. “Ah well,” a poet might say, “that’s because they’re not poets.”

I can relate to the envy spoken-word poets have for songwriters. I myself am a better wordsmith than I am a musician, yet I would like to have been more gifted musically. Here’s a piece I wrote last week that plays with this theme. I’ve been quick to give it to a composer/guitarist to write a melody for and perform as the speaker boasts of having much greater skill on the guitar than I can muster. I’ve written a bridge section to come after the fifth stanza should he so desire.  Seeing as the song version is not yet available, and I don’t know if he’ll be using the bridge section, I’m using it as an epigraph. A concession to the poetry purist in me.

  A Slice of Lemon

 

  I can feel your surprise when you hear me importune.
  I stand by my right to get carried away.
  I’ve no need for disguise; I’m a soldier of fortune.
  I’m ready to fight for the music I play.

 

      There’s a thin slice of lemon

      that’s waltzing through heaven;

   our scholars have named it the moon.

      I can warmly pursue it

      and try to review it,

    but nothing can match this new tune.

 

     There’s a faraway island

     that glows like a diamond;

  a planet, they say, not a star.

      I can slowly explore it

      and try to restore it,

  but words aren’t a patch on guitar.

 

     There’s this lad at the harbour

     who’s shy of the barber;

   his hair tends to tickle his knees.

      He’s the kind of musician

      who borrows your kitchen

   with never a thank-you or please.

 

     Well, we met by the bunkers

     last summer, two drunkards

   pretending the night was yet young.

     I was strumming my glories.

     He said: “These here stories

   would sound even better if sung.”

 

     Well, at first I was wary;

     the prospect was scary.

   Would this mean I’d have to sing lead?

      But I’ve lost all my scruples

      as one of his pupils.

   I’m high on the will to succeed.

  

     There’s a thin slice of lemon

     that’s waltzing through heaven;

   our scholars have named it the moon.

      I can always construe it

      and try to see through it,

    but nothing can match this new tune.

 

     There’s a faraway island

     that glows like a diamond;

  a planet, they say, not a star.

      And although I adore it

      and kneel down before it,

  these words aren’t a patch on guitar.