Van Morrison, Bad Free Verse, and Cinnamon Hair Coloring

I’ve been considering Van Morrison and finding one’s voice today. The Man will be playing at the Wang Center in April and I’ve been debating whether to pay the exorbitant ticket price for a performer on the decline. After all, his CDs as of late do not bear witness to that mystical troubador on Astral Weeks, Moondance, or even Into the Music. On reflection though, his music has matured in a different direction than those early works, closer to blues and jazz than rhythm and blues. His voice has also matured, from that of a man who could easily sing falsetto to one whose lower register has become the dominant note. He truly has become the lion in winter.

His music then has developed. His voice has deepened. But one could argue that the ground-breaking work of his early days has become the working place of today. He’s steady, shows up when he’s supposed to, and always performs yeoman work. And although that work is more complex and layered now than then, it just isn’t that exciting. Most of the time.

But you can’t go home again. Ten years ago I was writing poetry, that to my mind, was fresh and exciting. I had separated from my wife, moved to a place on the Merrimack River in a setting that was equal to Maine, strike that—Canada, and was relishing my newfound independence. I had also begun workshopping with the Powow Poets under the gentle guidance of the great Rhina Espaillat. Today I reread my poems from those days and cringe. They were written badly in very bad free verse. I wonder how Rhina could have found any worth in them at all. Ah! But they were fresh.

My poetry today has grown I hope. It has meter. And rhyme. But I hope it has more of those six principles to which Dr. Salemi spoke (see below). And the four I added. But I will never be able to capture that magic of ten years ago. My poems may be more complex and layered, but some of the mystic has gone.

But maybe there’s a benefit of not peaking too early, like Van the Man did. Maybe it’s a blessing I haven’t. There’s still something to look forward to. Like a Van Morrison concert.
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Postscript
I’ve decided to return to those old poems and try to resurrect the ones that call to me in the best fashion I can. The trick is not to make them poems of today though. I’m touching up the rhythm, making the meter a very loose blank verse, and attempting to improve the syntax, grammar, and contextual synchronicity!? But, at the same time, the poet of that time must remain. I’m more an editor than poet revising. Here’s one that I wrote about an adventure at CVS with my daughter, then 14 years old.

Going Outside the Lines

While browsing in the shampoo aisle
we pass hair colorings with names
of crayons, like cinnamon or copper.
The latter one—my daughter has
concurred, from twenty careful minutes
studying the labels,—will render
the cardinal highlights she prefers.
I question if it’s just too red.
But like any teen that’s laying claim
to individuality
she wants to shade the world her way:
temper the sky with lemon-lime!
turn the river burgundy!
emblazon earth canary!
But boundaries are difficult
for kingdoms to negotiate;
I’ll buy despite uncertainty
—hair is such fine compromise.