Life is a mural, a metaphor and a tautology
During Grade 10 or Grade 11, probably 11, I handed in a single-stanza poem to my English teacher. Mrs. Longe was impressed and sent it off to the creative writing professor she knew at the University of Victoria. I forgot his name now. He sent it back and wrote, “This is genius, I have also sent it to the publisher of the university's annual creative writing book. It features the best works from university students. Will your student want it published?”
I said, “Sure, but pay me millions.”
Okay, so the poem goes like this:
Life
Life is a mural
a cruel tautology, in a
tavern of tangible spirits
calling
material vessels to
wake before the dawn, to
wake before the fall
I did not see what was so genius about it. I had a box full of better poems.
I only remember that one because I saw it in print.
The other 2000 or so went into the fireplace when I lit them up with the newspapers and kindling.
Ashes to ashes
dust to dust
words are free
and thoughts are
superfluous
I needed to make money. “Poetry,” my father said, “Will not make you money.”
I had not yet thrown the poems into the fireplace. But it was not too long after that I lit it like an H bomb. First, a friend sat on my couch and read the 2000 or so poems in one go. He stayed up all night and read them. He was locked into the tractor beam, totally mesmerized.
The next day he and I were at a party and a rock band walked in. The band’s singer asked him, “Do you know anyone who can write lyrics?” My friend replied, “This guy standing next to me writes the most paralyzing phrases. Get his.”
The moon that night celebrated high over the ocean
her reflection, like a song, made my heart soar once again
like the moon, high over the ocean, we sang our sonnet
and you dreamt of the night how we sang to her silhouette
“Sorry, I looked at your poems, they are amazing, but I don’t know how to put them to our music, can I give you a tape to listen to and maybe you can write to it?”
It sounded like the Scorpions thrashing out of the portable stereo.
Jake drove a fast car. It ran on rage and anger
her motor would scream all night inciting danger
covered in chrome, she’s a heat score to be sure
she was fast like his girl, Angel, who sat Jake down
and told him one night in tears, how it was over
You only love me when I run
You want me fast; bullets from a gun
You only love me off the gun
You want me to pass; bury the one
That is where I left that stanza and the chorus. I asked, “Will that work, thematically?”
He said, “I can write lyrics like that, thanks, man.” And left.
They never made it.
I mean to say, if you are going to send me Scorpions or perhaps Metallica-like music, you are going to get Scorpions or Metallica-like lyrics. I wonder if he understood the use of metaphor. Unlikely.
I lit that box and it blew up like a paper grenade.
By the way, “burying the one,” was dropping out of first gear, off the line and into second. Angel was the name of his car, and he crashed her and they died together.
Life is a mural.