A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.

but aren't they all random?

Tuesday, June 05, 2018

the favorite band

People who love
the favorite band
you used to love more than anything,
when the world was young,
and they were good

- they have lost all proportion
from loyalty, well-founded in songs
that meant the world then,
and remake the world still,
if you listen to them.

They are listening still,
and it is just as if
they can hear what they wish for,

in wishing for it.

The new album comes out,
and then comes out again,
as the gaps between fill
with such lengthening years
of discontent. And where

are the songs?

The others can hear them,
they say. What is wrong?
You listen, and listen again,
right through. You bar all distractions,
as if you had nothing better to do. Because

if they gave you one song, you'd know
in a faith restored - you could have
nothing better than that! And you
would so desperately love
and want more! So you play it again,
as if to show how much more
would mean to you. And
you listen again,
all the way right through.

And you let it go. As rituals go,
it's less a communion or wedding
or funeral than an exorcism
that doesn't quite take.

There just isn't anything there
to possess or haunt, but you are -
by the ghost you've been,
listening for echoes of flesh
and blood you wish your prayers
and faith could make somehow solid
and warm, and live again,

but there just
isn't anything
there.

And the people who love

the favorite band

don't seem to care.
Are they the real fans?

The ones who can't tell
the difference?

The new album comes out, and these people
all name their favorite songs. They compare them

favorably

to songs that unmade and remade the world.
And with some great imaginary hope for them,

for the people who hear, and say they love,

you listen. You stop the whole world,
and you listen again. And again:

something is terribly, undeniably wrong
with these peoples' ears. You know,
but you don't know what, so
you listen again

in an act of defiant charity,
fighting back against doubt and fear -

And if there were anything there, you would hear!

But there isn't, you know

And you let it go.