The Elbow Project, a poetic libretto by Bruce W Niedt

 

The Elbow Project

Poems Inspired by the Rock Band Elbow

by

Bruce W. Niedt

 

 

 

 

 

1.     Another Sunrise

 

And if it's so, we'd only pass this way but once
What a perfect waste of time....

— "My Sad Captains"

 

I can imagine my ancestors in a pub

on the foggy north end of the heath

banging pewter cups on oaken tables

as the governor barked last orders

 

while in the harbor, moorings came loose and frayed

and some of the boats would drift into the river

trying to remember where they had been.

 

I want to bang my cup for another lager.

I want to float downstream, past castles and canals.

I want to miss the train but catch the next one.

I never want any of this to end.

 

I want the last sunrise to also be the first.

I want to toast myself when I wander off

and leave only my words to echo me.

 2.     October Sky

 

Build a rocket, boys!

—"Lippy Kids"

 

We were aimless too, once,

hormones rattling around

in an unfamiliar cage

 

settling like crows

on the jungle gym

in that Hitchcock film

 

and she would come down

a freshly painted angel

walking on walls

 

and we would fall

all over ourselves

crushing out cigarettes

 

but we stumbled into purpose

and became rocket boys

and became October sky.

 

3.     Out of This Place

 

Got a lot of spare time
Some of my youth and all of my senses on overdrive....

— "Any Day Now"

 

That summer I worked at the chemical plant,

the young fool that I was

sat on a barrel of sulfuric acid.

 

When they washed me off

my ass was red

and there were holes in my jeans

 

but I came back the next day,

not out of dedication, but for the money,

and the resolution to finish college

and get the hell out of town.

 

The day I finally left,

a drum line of my work buddies

marched me out

 

through the loading dock doors,

banging on those goddamned

chemical drums.

 

4.     How to Die Happy

 

...my sweet trampoline...

―"Fly Boy Blue/Lunette"

 

all of this bouncing, this back and this forth

and the layover boredom, I wait with a drink

and a smoke and whatever they have on the idiot box

 (in the old days they would let you smoke in the bar)

 

but now those two monkeys are climbing my back

the one is bile-green and the other soot-black

and I know if I shake them I'll save my own life

but the pangs are too much like a dull rusty knife

 

will you be my solace, my rising red moon

when I wake in the morning with a pain in the chest

my sweet trampoline, let me sleep on your breast,

let your mystery kill me, your scar and tattoo

 

 

5.     2 a.m.

 

I'm proud to be the one you hold when the shakes begin...

—"Powder Blue"

 

This diner could be a Hopper painting

but instead of coffee

we share a dish of soggy fries.

 

Tonight under neon lights we look

even more sallow and desperate than we are

but I want to tell you

that I'll stay even though I don't know

where I'm going

 

in this city where saxes sound off like sirens

and the rain could easily wash us away.

 

 

6.     Morning, Glory

 

Kiss me like a final meal....

— "One Day Like This"

 

a burst through curtains

when sunlight hits her blue eyes

two slices of sky

 

how did we get old

and what morning alchemy

keeps us feeling young

 

bones and muscles creak

but hearts drum like yesterday

another first kiss

 

one day like this would

see me right for life, but luck

blessed me with many

 

in dust and routine,

even dreary days, we find

uncurtained moments

 

7.     This Side of the Horizon

 

Throwing both her arms around the world....

―”Magnificent (She Says)"

 

You, little one, are "magnificent,"

to use that word with as many syllables

as you have had years on Earth.

 

I can't help but catch your joy

and forget everything else

on this beach, this sandy world

 

where the waves wash over your toes,

where a shell becomes a shovel

and a piece of sea glass, a precious gem.

 

My fears are still not far off,

just over the horizon, where sea monsters

or warships may lurk on any given day.

 

But for now, let's be builders and fashion

a magnificent princess castle for the ages,

or at least till the next high tide.

 

8.     Looking in the Rearview

      (a “word acrostic” poem)

 

Dear friends
You are angels and drunks
You are Magi

Old friends
You stuck a pin in the map I was in
And you are the stars I navigate home by

― "Dear Friends"

 

Dear departed, dear still there,

friends who have been part of the journey,

you all got me here today.

Are you sleeping, are you awake?

Angels and demons

and graybeards and ghosts,

drunks and teetotalers, scoundrels and saints,

you all are indispensable, you

are worth more than any gift of the

Magi, more than any billionaire's cache.

 

Old days sometimes fade like photographs, but

friends, you are the afterimage in my eyes,

you are the memories that make me smile,

stuck in the brain like

a favorite record, a butterfly on a

pin. I am still driving

in from the wilderness, dust on

the windshield, creases on the road

map, and I don't know exactly where

I will rest, but I do know I

was in the greatest company

in all the towns you found me in,

 

and you have my gratitude,

you clouds in the sunset, you who

are a two-lane highway through the plains,

the rest stop, the last gas, the

stars that knock me back at night when

I gaze overhead, the same ones I use to

navigate toward the last leg of this trip,

home by breakfast, home

by morning.

 

 

9.     Homecoming

 

The moon is out looking for trouble

and everyone's here....

― "Open Arms"

 

You woke this morning―you were not on fire.

You need no ladder to climb out the window.

 

            You leave a window open, bring a backpack.

            The conductor asks to see your ticket home.

 

Back home they've unfurled the colored banners,

They've strung and tested all the colored lights.

 

            When you arrive a little late, the lights are on,

            The moon is rising in three-quarter time,

 

They sing a song the moon would know by heart,

And hoist a brew to you, they spill some foam.

 

            The night careens along on foam and moonshine,

            you sing through open windows till they close.

 

You need no ladder to climb in the window―

You wake this morning and you're not on fire. 

 

10.  Man in a Tower

 

Send up a prayer in my name...

—"The Loneliness of the Tower Crane Driver"

 

They pay me handsomely

to haul heavy things toward heaven,

stories above the rest of you,

where I can't hear your stories below.

 

When the whistle blows, I climb down

to earth with my lunch pail, walking

myself toward home, amid the laughing

and cigarette smoke.

 

If you want to send up a prayer,

just relay it to me - I'll hoist it to the clouds.

Just remember I'm no demigod,

and I' m only the snap of a cable

 

or a buckled steel truss away from falling

farther than any of you to the ground.

 

11.  Tribute to Flight 370

 

A prayer to the takeoff and landing of everything... 

— "The Takeoff and Landing of Everything"

 

Here’s to the beat of oscillating wings,

feathers turned into the wind,

the downward flap, the thrust and soar.

 

Here’s to our weightlessness

as wheels lift off the tarmac, and engines

push into a corridor of sky.

 

Here’s to updrafts and tailwinds,

gliding over canyons and lakes

above the sharp-beaked predator’s eye.

 

Here’s to Neil Armstrong and Superman,

and here’s to the traffic helicopter,

the hummingbird’s blur at the nectar jar.

 

Here’s to coming down again,

tires chirping, talons clutching,

welcome rest, firm feel of home.

 

And here’s to those who fell in the sea—

let’s hope their souls have gone where

everyone lands where they want to be.

 

 

12.  Lighter Than Air

 

"He was weightless,

in my arms...."

— Weightless

 

red balloon escapes

defying gravity, up

above the tree line

 

while the balloon man below

clutches a handful of souls

 

All photos are courtesy of Unsplash.com. Photo credits:

      Title page: Ayush Sharma

1.     Johannes Plenio

2.     Lukasz Lada

3.     Boba Jovanovic

4.     Grace Madeline

5.     Thomas Charters

6.     Elle Hughes

7.     Engin Akyurt

8.     Inga Gezalian

9.     Unsplash in collaboration with Getty Images

10.  Bernd Dittrich

11.  Mark Stuckey

12.  Denisse Leon

 

All lyrics are indicated in italics, and are written by Guy Garvey and Elbow, © Warner Chappell Music.

'Another Sunrise' was previously published in Chantarelle's Notebook, June 2023.

 

BLOT a poetic libretto by Mark A Fisher

 

BLOT

 

A Poetic Libretto

 

Mark A. Fisher

 

This is a work of poetry any resemblance to blots living or dead is merely allusion and allegory.

My Muse

looks at me

and challenges me to face

memories I’d like to forget

called up

by little triggers

like the smell of pot roast

from the middle of a busy street

and the dreary darkness

that filled the bar

when I ate there

before class

where nothing ever came of smiles

from a waitress

except an open face sandwich

and fries

but

I do remember

though sometimes

it seems

it was a different me

the main character in a story

filled with plot holes

and grammatical errors

and too many different

writers

who didn’t bother to discuss

a plot

for the trilogy

just a contract

for a certain number of words

while I cling to the words

like heartbeats

which are both

finite

and running out

  

I watch the pure of heart

people that taught me better

become wolves

as the leaded gas fumes

reach down into

inflamed brains

the best minds

have lost their minds

and take themselves

into the streets

honking their horns

beep beep

‘cause they don’t have time

to dawdle

‘cause time dilation

means the faster they go

the slower they live

and all the days

blur together

like some kind of ugly porridge

nine days old

that only appeals to the crowds

that gather at those diners

where thoughts

ferment and bubble

spoiling

from the bad viruses of the minds

filled with visions of a heaven

unreachable

by any road

even Route 66

through Amboy

and an empty desert

filled to the brim

with sand

and stories

typed out on a 120 foot long

scroll of paper

like a dream

in the process of being forgotten

attenuating

into shadows

beneath a bright full moon

waiting for my suffering

to end

we come out of the mines

where the dark remnants of

an even darker past

cling to the hollows

where creatures delved

too deeply

into the foundations

of magic

to bring up gemstones

the size of dragon eggs

refracting light

in heartbeat pulses

of envy

and longing

crying tears

at the beauty we hold in our hands

that no god of the underworld

had ever meant to share

and none in the heavens

had ever known

or hoped to know

in the obsidian

vault of the sky

where mere stars

dot the landscape

like pebbles

in a stream

too deep

to reach

into

ebon depths

turned cold

like the dark side of the moon

where the shadows lie

waiting

to be claimed

no thing

or no one

no-one?

waiting at the edge

of the vast empty

wearing vestments

of midnight

in the fog that fills the

lonesome valley

uncanny valley

where the AI demons

dance their mutli-fingered

ballet across the stage

that is the world

our world

their world

filled with moments

momentous

yet hollow

waiting to be filled

like a heart

with blood

before it is

pumped out

put out

out put

in broken binary

yes no

maybe?

none of the above?

like some Moloch

that dances in the space between minds

in the decaying metropolis

unguarded by clark kent

or any other journalist

that could in all honesty

fact check

the hype

but sensationalism sells

sells?

garners more clicks

more eyes

these eyes

longing

for the promise

still unfulfilled

for the heroes

of the myths

 

I am drunk deep of ignorance. So I don’t know. I cannot know, no matter how much Socrates may implore, what it is that lurks in my mysterious shadows. Like a secret tumor. Not even in some Schrodinger state of unknowing. Shaped by the improbabilities that remain an un-calculated flux. With no form of observation possible to define its state, like some incompleteness by Godel. Made of mixed metaphors and competitively edited Wikipedia entries that never provide truths. Made of too many opinions that will never collapse to any kind of real state.

Though we look at the face we bore before we were born, we wrestle with the fact that the universe existed prior to any words. And there was no speech, that would bring together all the disparate legends into a single all-encompassing fictions. One where I am drunk perhaps on poetry, but drunk nonetheless. Though perhaps I should edit sober.

Or perhaps I should simply move on to some new ignorance. One that pleases me more.

it is dark

beneath a midnight sky

where the starlight

rains down

through the redwood trees

while we wait past midnight

for a rising sun

that oozes ‘cross meadows

where voles dance

through greenfields dressed in summer

and we’ll never be here again

since the neither the meadow

nor I

can foresee what this morning brings

and I dream of the desert stars

that will hang down above my head

but I cannot know

like I cannot know the meadow

nor the desert

nor even this moment

as I pass through

to some kind of empty sky

that holds no promise

except for a cosmic clock

that tick tick ticks

winding down

and meaning spreads

like ripples

in a nebula

when no one’s watching

‘cause no one looks up

making another dollar

giving out samples

of lives

of pointless absurdity

bringing laughter

and hands that are empty

from un-seized days

though pharaohs may have tried

but the tombs are empty

no matter how full

like a crocodiles smile

where it swims in the Nile

and all desire ends

and I smile at the stars

where I was born

and am

waiting to return

tardigrades walk tall

on their tiny feet

not quite immortal

though some have survived space

having lived through

a world of dinosaurs

and a world of humans

and they basically ignore us all

for we are merely passing through

disasters

that come along

now and again

to trouble them for a moment

before they return

to more important matters

tardigrade matters

inscrutable

and mysterious

like some unseen alien race that shares this world

with us

and waits for us too to pass

while they travel

times arrow

to a future

we will never know

 

he laughed

it was funny

maybe not roll on the floor

maybe not even a smiley face emoji

but it was funny

because it took

everything that was said

and turned it into a

yawp

barbaric or not

which sounded

ridiculous

when distilled down to

the answer to a koan

meant to trigger

enlightenment

without restriction

to the constraints of words

and shadows that fall

in between what is

and what ain’t

though maybe oughta be

like hope

and meaning

without

that Monday morning

alarm ringing

and disturbing the dream

of who he was

really

not the face that he would turn

out to an indifferent world

where he would laugh

at misunderstood jokes

that hurt

like bricks

fallen from the wall of time

leaving a hole

where he could peer

and see through the facade

it was funny

so

he laughed

two ravens

mackin’ mane

with all the empty promises made

lost in the dark clouds

of nightmares

that drift between the bones

that have lain

out in both midday's sun

and the dark of midnight

waiting out time

in the ashes of stars

burnt offerings

given to absent gods

fluttering about

in the quantum noise

on wings of leather

and fear

facing anger because

things aren’t right

but incapable

of fixing anything

until they’re observed

like the tree

that never made a sound

never cried out

with the pain of

a poisoned earth

and a malignant sky

that looms over

where the ravens

argue

the positives

of death

that comes

even with the immorality

of each instant

which has ever been

even though

even now

every passing now

fades into a forgetfulness

becoming as nothing

in the inertia

and entropy

but

still

a raven’s gotta

eat

 

“Them”

just another future

full of fear

where the myrmidons

march to drumbeats

pounded out in propaganda

spilled out on AM radio

and back-alley streamers

selling bottled up hate at

OTHERS

but it don’t matter

it’s freedom of speech

where anthills get acclimated

to the change

and folks disappear

into catacombs

of misinformation

harvesting alt-facts

like seeds

that will not be available

when the rains come

so no new blooms

‘cause the flower-children

grew old

and tired

and perhaps too realistic

giving up on the dreams

the nonexistent particles

of justice

of hope

so now we gotta hunt down the nests

to eliminate the nightmares

that come down to earth

with the Martians

to spread like sand

across our deserts

where once were oceans

before the climate changed

it doesn’t matter

‘cause like Galileo said

“Eppur si muove”

and indeed

no matter what

still it moves

the future’s not ours

“que sera sera”

dAImons

possessing artificial intelligences

visited by some virtual exorcist

will spit pea soup

of uncompiled code

written by forgotten humans

and shared on instructional

web sites

like recipes with four pages

of unrelated crap

before you finally get to

the stuff you want to see

and the jump to button

works so slowly

‘cause they want the clicks

so many clicks

like the gears of a difference engine

jammed up with a moth

“bugging” the system

and Spock defeating the computer

with a paradox

but the real AI

the ones we have today

are already quite mad

insane on the ramblings of too many

humans with too easy access

to spill their own nonsense onto

an unsuspecting web

with little regard

for reality

and cosmology

where observations are made

without observing

without seeing

the world is indeed round

not an azure peanut

while time drags out

dressed in its finest

but everybody knows

that it’s just a veneer

glued on top of

old plywood

like some kind of TV ghost town

where the robot

cries out “Danger, Danger!”

while we puzzle out

how to defeat the rubber suited terror

that we created

“I will fly too high”

said one seagull to another

“Like a metaphor”

T’other replied

thinking of hubris

and Icarus

though he was never a bird

like Jonathon

to find himself

in the falling

rather than the rising

like bread

that seagulls love

though it isn’t good for them

so they may be humbled

by vices

they cannot see

blinded by the motes

in the eyes of scallops

that are also blind

to the beauty

of a seashore sunrise

making do

with visions of sand

that shapes their world

that blurs as the seagull

flies across a blue sky

marred by contrails

laying out in some

cuneiform

stories that are unread

by the seagulls

flying below

looking down

not up

‘cause their high

leaves so much sky above

where celestial dragons

spin the sky

to change the stars

with the seasons

and the planets wander

through constellations

“Yeah,” said the first seagull

“just like a metaphor”

then flew away

oh we wallow in the mountains of madness

stunned that there was a world before

one that didn’t include us

and still went on and on

where it was all forgotten

like cities lost in endless deserts

or beneath the uncaring seas

not even spoken of in myth

or in secret books

that hold mysteries never to be shared

like the names of the dead

before the dead had names

while the voiceless stars

raged in their thermonuclear fire

no one heard

no one saw

that there was light

that filled the great emptiness

the expanse

filled with quantum foam

virtual particles

that spill out improbabilities

filling the gaps

like some elder god

that we all fear

but cannot understand

but claws at the backs of our minds

as we listen

to the scrabbling of chitinous feet

that crawl across the gravesides

of whole worlds

as galactic neighborhoods

get torn down

and rebuilt

in degenerate edifices

more beautiful

and less understandable

than the shadows of rules

we can’t hope to grasp

to hold against

the creeping of time

the horror of knowing

we can never know

as the play, plays out

and we learn that

no one else has read the book

at least no one else

studied

for the test

 a dragonfly darts through

desert sky

red against the creosote leaves

where the trailhead signs

show there’s water hidden

somewhere through rocky trails

and all the lonely sand

shows shadows of footsteps

untouched by winds

that have come down from hills

that have risen up

from time

metamorphized and changed

from seafloors and mountains

that fell before time was counted

and the ancient ancestors of insects still crawled beneath the water

and trees were still a fantasy

imagined by a blind muse

the one that whispers to me

the one that tells me

I am bone

and flesh

bound for glory

the one that lies

and tells me that I am separate

and unique

the one that tells me

these genes die with me

as my words disappear

like a dragonfly

to an unseen oasis

where my words ripple

across the surface of a pool

that I will never see

that reaches out

and touches a new muse

to rise up

and fly across an empty sky

to light upon

another

that travels this same path

and not seeing

the same pool

that I never truly

saw

we scramble like beetles

through litter and breakdown

moments into compost

where we grow new

moments

that have not yet tasted

the rain

the winter

or even summer sun

but these moments will grow tall

fertilized by the moments that came before

all the future

lives off all the past

back to the beginning of time

before

when people I will never know

dreamed dreams

that may never have come true

those dreams feed mine

and take a fallow ground

and fill it with wildflowers

useless useless flowers

unless beauty is useful

but beauty is in the eyes that see

not in the flower

the flower doesn’t see what it brings

though the beetle sees

and knows

it its tiny beetle mind

that beauty

may not provide function

or maybe it does

to the muse

as the beetle writes poems

in footsteps

that vanish

back into dreams

even before the waker