Somewhere Over the Sun

After tweeting something or the other about my love of music the other day, a friend asked me why I never write any song lyrics. I replied, quite stupidly, that it’s because I’m no good at rhyming or melodies. She told me, quite rightly, that songs don’t have to rhyme and I don’t have to come up with the melodies. So I started thinking about what I could write a song about.

But, while juggling rewrites, continuous additions to books three/four (still haven’t decided which I’ll dedicate myself to first) and the occasional blog post, I was coming up with blanks for a song. I looked back at stuff I’ve written in the past in search of a piece that someone more musically talented than me might be able to turn into a song.

Before I formally challenge anyone reading this to try to add a melody to the following unstructured poem, I’d like to update on my plans to have a live chat session with my dear readers. Update: I still plan on having a live chat session. I’m sorting through some suggested sites and trying to improve my e-literacy before choosing a time and a place for it. Keep the suggestions for hosts/times coming!

And now, I challenge you, or someone you know, to turn the following words into lyrics. Add some guitar chords or some piano keys or a few gentle notes from a harmonica. Go a capella. Do whatever you want, just make it songy. If you do decide to take the challenge, please share your work with me. I’d love to see what people can come up with. This may be a good time to offer a free copy of Somewhere Over the Sun as an incentive as well. Enjoy!

i fell asleep beneath your blanket
i hadn’t felt its warmth since you caused it
i couldn’t separate you and me from us
though so much has
since this blanket last slept
the past lives here
in smells this blanket no longer carries
in the just now
afterthought
of soft, hurried kisses
which i couldn’t keep to myself
no matter the hour
this blanket
no matter how inanimate we are
no matter how un-alive it is
breathes you into me.

Alright, so, I’m sitting in public and I’m mouthing the words to one of my favorite songs. And some woman looks at me and although her face doesn’t contort into any sort of reaction, I know some part of her finds me silly. Which is perfectly okay. Moving your mouth without saying anything is silly. Whether you see it as borderline-crazy-person silly or borderline-happy-person silly is up to you.

But, listen, woman with the Samsung laptop and no beverage, the song’s playing, my favorite part is coming up, and keeping my lips pressed together feels so much sillier to me. The words are there, just another repetition of the chorus away, right at the start of the next verse, and listen, I know the words perfectly, even if I can’t sing them as well as he can, or even if I don’t always get the timing right. But not mouthing them is like turning the volume all the way down until the song no longer exists. Not mouthing them is ridiculous, it’s not having dessert when it’s right there in front of you, not telling someone you love them when you love them, not jumping naked into an abandoned ocean when you really want to, just because you are afraid of the idea of its inherent silliness, blushing naked in the dark, silly beyond silly. Songs are meant to be sung by more than just the people who wrote them.

Someday, when I’m a little sillier, a little crazier or a little happier, I’ll sing them out loud too, with the full power of my unskilled vocal chords, always, not just in the shower or in my car or when I’m walking and there aren’t too many people around, but always, always, like the men in New York City who unabashedly talk to flowers.