SONG WRITING AND POETRY

SONGWRITING AND POETRY
C 2008 JoJo

When people are undergoing a great deal of emotional heartache and misery in their lives, they often go out on a bender and get roaring drunk. I expunge it by writing poetry and songs. This is not only considerably cheaper, but I don’t have to deal with a hangover the next day.

The pain I write about often isn’t mine – it’s someone else’s, who’s conveyed it to me.

A perfect example of this took place when I was just 10 years old, living in Morro Velho in the State of Minas Gerais, Brazil. A little girl friend and I went out walking in a nearby forest (can’t see kids doing that nowadays). We came across a forester’s hut and to our dismay, a man was sitting on a crude bench outside the hut, bent over, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands, sobbing his heart out. It’s hard to say what age he was – to a 10 year old, anyone 30 and over has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. So all that he registered to us was that he was an “old man.” In retrospect, I imagine he was in his early thirties.

Naturally, both my little friend and I were very curious as to why this guy was so upset.

“Come on,” I whispered to her. “Let’s go over and ask him what happened.”

“I’m not going over,” she whispered back. “He might be a murderer.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I hissed, “Murderers don’t cry!”

“How do you know?” she spluttered.

“Because I go to the movies, and I’m telling you, in the movies they never cry.”

“Well, I’m not going over – you go,” she said.

I stood there for a while, pondering the situation. Finally I realized that if I didn’t find out the source of his grief, I wouldn’t know a moment’s peace of mind again for a long, long time. Very cautiously, I approached him. When I was a few yards away, he sensed my presence, and raised a tear strewn face, looking at me with haunted eyes and such grief, that it pierced my heart. He didn’t try to control his grief, lowered his head and burst into fresh sobs.

I felt desperately sorry for him, so I walked over and patted his shoulder awkwardly.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Won’t you please tell me why you’re crying?”

“My wife died last week,” he said, choking back his sobs, “and I don’t know why. She just died. I buried her over there under that Jacaranda tree because she’d always loved that tree.”

I looked over and saw the fresh mound of earth under the tree with a crude cross at the head of it.

I started crying in sympathy. “I am so sorry,” I said. “But I’m sure she’s in Heaven and that you will find another wife.”

Awkward words, and not very comforting ones to him.

“Never!” he said angrily. “Never!” Then he lowered his head again and cried bitterly. “I want to die,” he said “I can’t go on living without her.”

I patted his shoulder again, and told him how desperately sorry I was for his tragic loss.

I crept back to my friend and she told me I was crazy to have talked to the “old man” and I was lucky he hadn’t killed me on the spot.

“Oh stop it,” I said impatiently. “I told you – murderers don’t cry. He’s just an old man who lost his wife, that’s all.”

We ran out of the forest and went to our respective homes. I walked in through the front door, sobbing my heart out. As I neared my home, my sobs went up in volume – Mum rushed out, gathered me up into her arms and asked “What happened sweetheart?”

I told her about the old man I’d seen in the forest, and her first reaction was to say “Did he hurt you? What did he do to you?”

“He didn’t do anything to me – no, no, it wasn’t like that at all. He was crying because his wife DIED!” I broke out into louder more anguished sobs. Mum cuddled me and gently rebuked me for “talking to strangers.” She told me to cheer up and think about something else. But I couldn’t

Throughout that day, I kept seeing that “old man’s” grief stricken, weather-beaten, defeated face, with tears streaming down his cheeks and it haunted me. That night, I took up my guitar and wrote a song about it. Unfortunately it’s in Portuguese, but I’ll translate it as best I can.

The moon is falling, my love,
The moon is falling my love,
And I’m sitting here all alone,
And I’m here all alone, thinking about you.

I don’t want to live anymore,
Because living is suffering,
I don’t want to live anymore
My dearest one, with out you.

Then it goes into an refrain ending:

The moon is falling my love,
The moon is falling my love,
The moon is falling my love,
And I’m broken hearted.

Heavy stuff for a 10 year old! Too bad I can post it being sung on this blog. I took liberties with its composition by going from a minor key to a major, back to a minor and then a major, throughout the song. Very amateurish, but what the heck, I was only 10!

On the same theme in regard to writing songs about other people’s pain, a dear friend of mine lost her husband suddenly. He was killed by a drunk driver. I rushed over to her house, and when she opened the door, I hugged her and all she kept saying was “I forgot to tell him this morning that I love him – and I never even got to say ‘goodbye.’”

Her pain, became my pain (gee I wish I could find a way of preventing that from happening, but it does every time someone I love is in mental anguish). This led to the following song

I NEVER EVEN GOT TO SAY ‘GOODBYE’
C 1976 JoJo

It’s so easy to take a love for granted,
When that love has sustained you through the years,
And fulfilled every wish you ever wanted,
And has endured all the hardships and the tears,
But how, oh how was I to know?
That morning when you turned away to go,
That a cruel fate would take you away from me,
Leaving just a bitter and painful memory,
Of how I forgot to say ‘I love you,’
And I never even got to say ‘goodbye.’

CHORUS:

It’s just so hard to stop myself from grieving,
And I wish that I could know the reason why,
Why did I forget to say ‘I love you?’
And I never even got to say ‘Goodbye.”

It’s so easy, to think your love’s forever,
And that nothing in this world could interfere,
You cannot for a moment, think that ever
You could lose a love you’ve always held so dear,
But how, oh how was I to know?
That morning when you turned away to go,
That a cruel fate would tear you and me apart,
Leaving me so devastated, with an aching broken heart?
Because I forgot to say ‘I love you,’
And I never even got to say ‘Goodbye.’

CHORUS

Well, I’ve also written many poems about both my personal anguish and that of others. But this is enough for today.