It's Poetry Friday, and I want to offer up a song. The link to it was posted on Facebook by my friend Daphne Kalmar. The fact that I don't know what the words of the song mean - don't even know the alphabet in which the words of this song are written - makes me hesitate, but it's not really the meaning I'm attracted to. It's the smile on the singer's face. I can hardly describe how much I love the delight this woman feels as she sings her song.
(If the embedded video won't play, just click this link.)
Look at the way that woman's body moves - her arms, her hands, the way she makes that little "crazy" sign up by her head! Maybe she remembers something while she sings her song. Is it all joy, what she remembers? Maybe there's a little sorrow? I might be imagining it. For all I know, the song could be about a lost hat. But no, you can see it from time to time, the wrinkled brow, the catch in the voice, right?
What is she saying? Do I want to know? I imagine the woman is Russian, I imagine a long history of suffering, life under Stalin, Russian soldiers during the winter of 1942-43. But I have a huge imagination when it comes to sorrow.
While in Oaxaca this September, my husband and I walked past a thin young boy every day who played the accordion and hoped for spare change. He sometimes had an even younger sister with him, in charge of holding out her hand. We gave them whatever coins we had, sometimes more, on the way out from our apartment in the morning and on the way back in the late afternoon. He was always there. He couldn't play well; in fact, he didn't really play a tune, just a note here, a note there, while the accordion itself - pulled out, pushed in - did the job of wheezing and begging. Now I'm home in Seattle in my comfy house, but there's no doubt the boy is still there each day, his back up against the stone wall surrounding the Santo Domingo church. His song and the poverty and heartbreak it represents are there, but also here now, with me.
The woman in the video - her pleasure is as much a poem as the lyrics of her song, isn't it? The boy and his sister in Oaxaca - small as sighs - those sighs are poems. And when it comes right down to it, who can say what a poem is or how it comes to us? I look at the woman while she sings - her hand slapping the table is a poem, her smile is a poem. And the melody drifting out into the Oaxaca air - I could hear the music before I could see the boy - that was a poem. Delight, joy, suffering, songs, musical notes floating in the air, a teacup on a table, Mickey Mouse on a Russian apron, a hand held out for spare change - all poems. Sometimes they come in small packages.
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This week's Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted by Diane over at Random Noodling. Head over there to see what other people have posted.
Look at the way that woman's body moves - her arms, her hands, the way she makes that little "crazy" sign up by her head! Maybe she remembers something while she sings her song. Is it all joy, what she remembers? Maybe there's a little sorrow? I might be imagining it. For all I know, the song could be about a lost hat. But no, you can see it from time to time, the wrinkled brow, the catch in the voice, right?
What is she saying? Do I want to know? I imagine the woman is Russian, I imagine a long history of suffering, life under Stalin, Russian soldiers during the winter of 1942-43. But I have a huge imagination when it comes to sorrow.
While in Oaxaca this September, my husband and I walked past a thin young boy every day who played the accordion and hoped for spare change. He sometimes had an even younger sister with him, in charge of holding out her hand. We gave them whatever coins we had, sometimes more, on the way out from our apartment in the morning and on the way back in the late afternoon. He was always there. He couldn't play well; in fact, he didn't really play a tune, just a note here, a note there, while the accordion itself - pulled out, pushed in - did the job of wheezing and begging. Now I'm home in Seattle in my comfy house, but there's no doubt the boy is still there each day, his back up against the stone wall surrounding the Santo Domingo church. His song and the poverty and heartbreak it represents are there, but also here now, with me.
The woman in the video - her pleasure is as much a poem as the lyrics of her song, isn't it? The boy and his sister in Oaxaca - small as sighs - those sighs are poems. And when it comes right down to it, who can say what a poem is or how it comes to us? I look at the woman while she sings - her hand slapping the table is a poem, her smile is a poem. And the melody drifting out into the Oaxaca air - I could hear the music before I could see the boy - that was a poem. Delight, joy, suffering, songs, musical notes floating in the air, a teacup on a table, Mickey Mouse on a Russian apron, a hand held out for spare change - all poems. Sometimes they come in small packages.
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This week's Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted by Diane over at Random Noodling. Head over there to see what other people have posted.
I love the way you think, Julie! "Mickey Mouse on a Russian apron, a hand held out for spare change - all poems. Sometimes they come in small packages."
ReplyDeleteI'm thinking that the Russian song is not about suffering, though, it might be a drinking song. I thought I heard the word Na zdorovje (Pronounced something like Naz-drove-nee-ah.) In Polish the word is nearly the same, and I know from my Polish grandparents that it's a drinking toast--"to your health." But then again, I could have totally misheard, and the song is really a Russian version of "Charlie on the M.T.A." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7Jw_v3F_Q0
I was wondering, Diane, whether it might actually be Polish rather than Russian, in spite of my overactive imagination about Stalin, etc. And a drinking song maybe - yes! It does sound like that, and at one point the woman picks up the cup off the table and gestures with it. I have a friend whose son is married to a Russian woman - will see whether she knows what language this is and what the gist of the song is. I'm almost afraid to find out.
ReplyDeleteWow, I used to have the Kingston Trio album with that song on it!! Haven't heard it for forever.
YES! YES! YES! It's so nice to have you express my own outlook about what poetry is, Julie. Whether or not this is a drinking song, the poem is less about the song itself, but about the woman's emotional connection with it. Or, as you wrote, "The boy and his sister in Oaxaca - small as sighs - those sighs are poems." Moments... feelings... small packages... ditties, even. ;) Thanks, Julie, for this wonderful post.
ReplyDeleteI loved being in the kitchen with them while they sang and played -- what fun, Julie! Watching this song made me kind of hungry. I'll bet she is a great cook.
ReplyDeleteA couple of lines from your post that struck me:
"His song and the poverty and heartbreak it represents are there, but also here now, with me."
and
"I look at the woman while she sings - her hand slapping the table is a poem, her smile is a poem."
This woman sure has lung power! Whatever she's singing about, there is a certain joy in the chorus, I think. I wonder if it's about overcoming hardship in some way. I, also, love the way you characterize sighs and smiles as poems.
ReplyDeleteYes! Julie. There is pure joy and a deep in the belly relish in her song. Not knowing the lyrics allows for more meaning, I can write my own story. It's a nugget. Too me poems are nuggets and her hands and face are what add meaning to the song. So happy you posted this!
ReplyDeletexo
Daphne