I still remember that evening, I believe it was 2004, in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. In town, there’s an old general store where the backroom turns magical every Thursday evening. Jay Hurley found his purpose in Saving Americana. It was on my second trip, a work assignment at the Fish and Wildlife Training Center, when a staffer at the training center suggested we go hear the music in the back of the Shepherdstown general store.
I wandered past pots, screws, and crank meat grinders on the shelves of an old-timey store, where I asked the man at the counter about the evening’s music, and he pointed me toward a door in the back of the store. There were chairs, about two rows, set around the edges of a large room, and as I sat and chatted with new acquaintances, musicians straggled in with their instruments.
Now, let me say I’m no expert on music, and that lack of knowledge is thoroughly confessed in my poem “Regrets.”
Regrets
So many, of course, like the days I roared at the children
when there would have been a gentler way,
all the times I said ‘yes,’ when it should’ve been ‘nay,’
and I won’t give you details, or we’d be here all day.
But I truly regret not learning a note: no music, no song,
no instrument. It’s as if I’m in a foreign land where my son
rings the bells and played the drums, and his sister belted out songs,
where my youngest could jazz out on a mellow bassoon
and my grandchildren have followed that lyrical path where I forked
the wrong way, where Abuela doesn’t know a staff from staccato,
where my progeny marches and plays and plays and plays
in a land where magic connects with conspiracy and I’m merely
clueless a largo.
—Sandra Fox Murphy
Thus, I wish I could say more about the music that night, but, truly, the moments were as much about community as the room full of instruments and melodies. Many musicians, men and women, young and old, knew each other—some, I’m certain, from only these weekly gatherings. The delight that emanated from these artists late into the evening was, at the very least, a blessing. Full of feeling. I loved watching the men playing their hammered dulcimers, sitting right in front of me. All the instruments showed up. I believe there was even a harp. Someone would call out a song, and immediately the musicians would be strumming or tapping or blowing into a reed or horn. Then the singing. Magical. When I left late that night, I believe I was floating.
Of course, poetry and music are surely first cousins. One of my best-loved poets, Loretta Diane Walker, a Texan, was a music teacher in Odessa, in the harsh Permian Basin. Much of her poetry sings of the west deserts, but here’s an excerpt from “Transformation” where her love of music shines.
…
I am a violin string, too.
The woman I am now
Is not the woman
I will always be.
With each song of day,
I must be re-tuned.
—excerpt from “Transformation” by Loretta Diane Walker (read the whole poem in the collection Desert Light)
Like a scent, it is startling how quickly a melody can carry us to a moment from the past, such as in D. H. Lawrence’s poem Piano.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home ….
Time and place can be rooted deeply in a song. As I wrote the story of three friends in Dalhart, Texas in the 1950s, the music of the time kept showing up, so I created a playlist. The songs of Hank Williams and Jim Reeves carried me straight to those days, and Roger Miller’s work takes me straight to the Texas Panhandle. In the poem Music by Sir Walter de la Mare, he outlines the salve of a tune and how it stirs our “dwelling place.”
We all have our unique tastes in music. I like music that touches my heart, a charmed tune where the lyrics speak to me. Some of my favorites: Eva Cassidy, Van Morrison, Nancy Griffith, Iris de Ment, and then there’s Cedric Watson’s Cajun music that takes me to the roots of the deep south. A writing friend, Dan, introduced me to Watson, showing a video of him playing a gourd banjo, and then I discovered Watson’s bijou creole and zydeco. And bluegrass, so prevalent in that songfest in Shepherdstown, West Virginia, is a staunch favorite of mine, and from Gabriel Gomez’s poem Bluegrass:
… but you knew that
Having learned tablature
The guitar posed in sculpture
Clear its throat by reaching the oval gap flushed
Against stomach into its curious sound
Gather fingers around an inexhaustible voice and play the strings ….
—excerpt of “Bluegrass” by Gabriel Gomez (read the whole poem)
So, when music touches one’s heart, is it healing? Certainly, we are all, at times, soothed by music. Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “I Am in Need of Music” reflects the healing of music.
There is magic made by melody:
A spell of rest and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep ….
—excerpt of “I Am in Need of Music” by Elizabeth Bishop
In my poem above, “Regrets,” you see that my kids and grandkids love music, so I’m no stranger to marching bands, concerts, and drum corps, and here, I captured the image of a neighborhood wake-up march:
The God’s Eye View
Oh, little drone, whirring
above with the starlings
watching the girls
and boys gather,
form into lines, tune up
their tubas and clarinets.
One – two – three …
and like little ants,
spied from a plastic eye
clicking aloft,
they march in step
puffing out notes
carried high
into a blue morning
sky, drumsticks tap
the pageant’s beat
and step. Patterns,
caught on camera,
awkward, noncommittal
… autocorrected
and booming Sousa
to wake the day.
—Sandra Fox Murphy
To close, I return to Loretta Diane Walker and her playful poem “If Mozart Were a West Texan” from In This House :
At sunset, he’d listen to Bach’s Suite No. 3 en ré majeur (in D Major)
while night, a black wolf, howled on the horizon
and licked up light.
He’d study a dark constellation of grackles
strung out on telephone wires.
—excerpt of “If Mozart Were a West Texan” by Loretta Diane Walker (read the whole poem in the collection In this House)
And again, from the late Walker, a moving excerpt from her poem “The Ancient.”
Luminous hands drum
the rough pine box,
his voice, soft like blue, chants:
These are the words you fear,
have not spoken, wished you knew.
—excerpt from “The Ancient” by Loretta Diane Walker (read the whole poem)
Your Turn
What song or artist takes you back to a special time or person? What would your playlist sound like? Are there songs or artists that wrap you in well-being, soothe your soul? I wish you melodies and lyrics to carry you to lovely places and meaningful memories.
Post photo by Abby Gillardi, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Sandra Fox Murphy.
- Poet Laura: A Concert in the General Store - February 5, 2025
- Poet Laura: A January Pilgrimage - January 8, 2025
- Poet Laura: A Cuppa Comfort for the Holiday - December 4, 2024
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