Saturday, November 5, 2011

Verses Out of Rhythm, Couplets Out of Rhyme.

I'm a lot like both of my parents. I have my mom's love of all things British, her absurdly thick hair, and I have the unnerving ability to "suck all of the air" out of a car if the person driving almost gets in an accident. Or so I've been told.

I have my dad's quick sarcasm, stubborn disposition (in all of the right ways), and his love for music. My dad introduced me to The Beatles and all of my favorite musicals like South Pacific, Singing in the Rain, The King and I, and Oklahoma. One of my favorite things to do when I'm home is to look at my dad's record collection and put on an Rubber Soul or another old Beatles' record. Everything sounds much more beautiful on a record. My dad has hundreds of CDs of every genre and band. He has everything from Michael Jackson to Gordon Lightfoot, from No Doubt to The Cars.

Last Christmas break, my Dad and I spent hours picking out dozens of CDs to burn onto my computer. Father-daughter bonding at its best. One of my favorite bands he gave me that I have grown to love is Simon & Garfunkel. I love the way their songs tell real stories of life and human experience. Their songs really speak to me.

Here's one of my favorite songs right now. Read the lyrics. Is there anyone who can't relate to this song? Simply lovely.

(Really corny images but good quality of the song. Don't judge.)

Dangling Conversation

It's a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
The borders of our lives.

And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
Lost in the dangling conversation
And in the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.

Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
"Is the theater really dead?"
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.

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