Poets, Love, and Death

Columbia Records, Inc.

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

Like many of you, the gift of 21st century tech allows me to carry my music collection around on my phone.  It's more convenient than toting around an iPod or similar device.  One can only have so many pockets.  The collection is an eclectic mix of rock, religion, jazz, traditional Irish, classical, and even some country and western.  The music makes my long walks better by helping establish a good pace, and when I'm in the car and there's nothing worth listening to on the radio, I can fill the time with something that is worth listening to.  Some of the songs are relatively new, some are hundreds of years old.  And there is that music which was associated with the protest movements in the '60's.  Among these are songs by Dylan, Peter, Paul & Mary, and Simon and Garfunkel.  These songs were the soundtrack of my youth, and bring back some good memories.  Once in a while, I'll be listening to a particular song, a familiar one, that suddenly opens a door into new understanding; a context formed over the years.

In September 1966, Simon & Garfunkel debuted a new single from their third album, "Parsely, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme."  The tune, entitled "The Dangling Conversation" at first glance was the retelling of yet another gritty New York romance gone south.  The song didn't chart well, only climbing to number 25.  Simon later remarked that the lyrics were "above the kids."  But that day, for the first time, I listened -- really listened -- to the lyrics.

Paul Simon has a gift for creating images in his words that are deeply textured, creating not just a scene, but a piece of life itself, something not so much seen as felt.

"It's a still-life watercolor

of a now-late afternoon

As the sun shines through the curtain lace

And shadows wash the room" 

The words created in my mind the image of two people in a New York City apartment, sitting motionless.  Outside the window in the winter cold, the noise of the city muttered through the glass.  The late afternoon sunlight illuminates the delicate lace that borders the curtains.  The late hour brings shadows that slowly lengthen on the floor, perhaps signalling the end of yet another empty day.  In the quiet air of the apartment there is perhaps a tinge of regret that time is slipping away.  The two are drinking coffee and while they are sharing the space, they are at the same time apart from each other in spirit.  And as the shadows lengthen, they are moving further away in different directions.

They still speak, but the words are stilted; difficult.  Thoughts spoken aloud hang in the air, incomplete, as they have become superficial to each other.  Simon writes of them asking questions of each other about the theater and analysis, hoping to find that scintillating conversation they once had.  But the flash point is not there.

Many of us attach ourselves to interests or causes that catch our attention.  Sometimes they become life-long avocations.  But as often as not, we find ourselves at a point where we realize that we did this to become interesting and popular with others.  One morning we wake up and discover that we have spent our lives lying to ourselves.  What we think we are, we never really were.

"And you read your Emily Dickinson

And I my Robert Frost

And we note our place with bookmarkers

That measure what we lost

This is an interesting couple of lines.  Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost were two of the greatest American Poets.  Their time was separated by about 50 years, and while Frost was very well known while he was alive, Dickinson's poems actually weren't published until after her death, when they were discovered by her sister.  Both wrote beautifully about nature, but also shared a darkness brought upon by tragedies.  Both poets wrote extensively about death, drawing from that secret pocket of angst that produces brilliant poetry.  While Dickinson wrote of her own death, Frost focused on the deaths of others, particularly his son.  Perhaps the best illustration is in these two excerpts, the first from Emily, the second from Robert:

Because I could not stop for Death-

He kindly stopped for me-

The Carriage held but just Ourselves-

And Immortality.

We slowly drove- He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility- 

***

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Death has come for Emily, and she accepts his ride, comfortable with the idea that her life is complete.  Frost, conversely, will not stop for death because he knows his life is not over yet.

Since "The Dangling Conversation" is a song about the death of a relationship, these two poets play an important role in the song's meaning.

In the early days of a new relationship, there is a spark, an excitement.  If the bond is built on enduring things like friendship, respect, shared dreams, it has a chance to grow.  The two are the same, but evolve together into a shared experience.  But if what they have together is shallow and temporary, then they find themselves where the couple in the song are, with the spark a fading glint at the end of an ever-darkening tunnel.  As the end approaches, the synch between the two is lost.  Simon uses his experience as a songwriter to cry out:

Like a poem poorly written

We are verses out of rhythm

Couplets out of rhyme

In syncopated time 

Everyone has a failed relationship in their past. It was the death of something very dear, for which we grieved. But it is what we learn in our moments of sorrow that will help us find the joy we all seek.

All of this because I stopped hearing long enough to listen.