THE POETRY OF ROCK
(to Master Jobert Jungian, poet, rockstar)

Come in
Come in from the cold
Please come in
Come in from the cold

Poetry rocks. But if a poem is also a rock song, then poetry rocks even more.

Here's the Taupin/John poetic formula: Bernie writes a poem, Elton fills in the score. It is the reverse method of composition but acknowledges, for once, the supreme importance of text.
Look at pop. Listen to the garbage of mush. As long it contains the fififi of love and the fufufu of longing, mainstream will listen and drool through the nose. Count me out.

Rock's music is in your face, but hey, rocks lyrics are in your soul. Carl J is wont to say, find your animal, and we go listen to a rock song because it takes the wildness and animalness in us to a higher humane level. The solid clapping of drums and screaming crescendo of lead becomes a complete lullaby just as soon as we find the melody of song in the solemn crossroads of words, of poetry...

A house on fire
A wall of stone
A door that once was open
An empty face and empty bones
Who ate your heart?
You're cold inside
You're not the one I hoped for
I'll see you on the other side
I'll see you on the other side
(- Untitled 1, Keane)

The virtue of rock is no different to the challenge of Arnold Adolf to Black America: Use the words to raise the children singing with their power, no silent death, strong for the people. And why not? The lyrics of rock songs are in themselves solid and fluid, full but permeable. They sting while they reach, embrace and crush, so be careful of that song, be aware of what you wish for...

Where the road is dark,
and the seed is sowed
Where the gun is cocked,
and the bullet's cold
Where the miles are marked
in blood and gold
I'll meet you further
on up the road.
(Further On, Bruce Springsteen)

Poetry is truth, reality is cliche'. Do I sound subversively empty, subverting space with my emptiness? Blame the poetry of Paul McCartney, where nothingness fills the void...

He's a real Nowhere Man
Sitting in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans
for nobody

Aha!, that is poetry of the highest order, properly trained in philosophical ambiguity. Here's my take: that nowhere man has achieved his own, exclusive individuality. It is a lovely song of poignancy, where being nothing is poignant, but that Nowhere Man, that man, to me is fully imagined, with a full image. Nowhere Man is Me. Whoever asked, Who is there?, and whoever responded, Nobody, I am - are Nowhere Men, too. And they are you. Didn't I say, poetry is truth?

Poetry is an enigma and in the most enigmatic of rock songs, nothing possibly compares to the sacred poetry of Adam F. Duritz of Counting Crows - in the very haunting Round Here (please, recite this loud enough for your soul to hear) ...

Step out of the front door like a ghost
into the fog where no one notices
the contrast of white on white

And in between the moon and you
the angels get a better view
of the crumbling difference between wrong and right

I walk in between the rain
through myself and back again
Where? I don't know

Maria says she's dying.
Through the door I hear her crying
Why? I don't know

Pessoa the poet is right. Poetry is astonishment, as of a being falling from the skies taking full consciousness of his fall. But Joni Mitchell, the poet rocker, is even righter and her poetry is a real astonishment. Coming of age (where adulthood is a good time to grow-up, har-har) is Coming From the Cold, said she:

I am not some stone commission
Like a statue in a park
I am flesh and blood and vision
I am howling in the dark
Long blue shadows of the jackals
Are falling on a payphone
Oh all we ever wanted
Was just to come in from the cold

Is this just vulgar electricity
Is this the edifying fire
Does your smile's covert complicity
Debase as it admires
Are you just checking out your mojo
Or am I just fighting off growing old
All I ever wanted
Was just to come in from the cold

When I thought life had some meaning
Then I thought I had some choice
And I made some value judgments
In a self important voice
But then absurdity came over me
And I longed to lose control
Oh all I ever wanted
Was just to come in from the cold

Poetry Is Alive. Rock On.