Feature: Tim Buck Day 3

Butterfly and Chinese wisteria flowers by Xü Xi (in the public domain, expired copyright)





Spirits


Sentience rides in a chariot reined by an illusionist.

Something within decides before you've thought of it.


Everything in the body movin' like a fugue of Bach.

Every nerve in the brain pushin' toward the crunch.

Every memory like a ghost from Pandora's trunk.

Ennui, sweet ennui, won't you bring a melancholy funk?


I dream about floods, non-plussed, how'll I brook that enigma?

I wake up to consciousness of being swallowed like Jonah.


When the crisis leads to all of your cards being trumped,

and you think you hear faint calls from the shell of a conch,

it is way past time for a subtle thirteenth month.

Ennui, sweet ennui, won't you bring a bittersweet pungency?


Spirits moving in the mist of morning

like Japanese blossoms a-floating,

like strange laughter in the wind chimes,

like a waterfall singin' old rhymes.


Spirits moving in between the seasons

like the origami art of creasing,

like oblique flight of black butterflies,

like the shadow's edge holds a hundred sighs.


Spirits, spirits, I will no longer turn my back on you.

Spirits, spirits, I'll wade in your waters that are dark and cool.


The dead shall be spoken to in cadential conversation.

The days shall be slant like the poems of Emily Dickinson.


I'll walk the Street of Crocodiles, listen to Schubert.

I'll fall in love however I wish, even flagrantly tendered.

I will gaze at the stars and think about all mortal creatures.

Ennui, sweet ennui, won't you be my tearful teacher?


Spirits moving in twilight of evening,

in the plumage of a peacock's preening,

in the rhythm of two lovers dancing,

in the eyes of that girl reading tea leaves.


Spirits, spirits, I will no longer turn my back on you.

Spirits, spirits, I'll wade in your waters that are dark and cool.

Music & Lyrics © Tim Buck


**** **** **** ****

Q&A

4. Has it ever happened that when you're recording your songs, your neighbor/roommate/family came banging at the door complaining of noise pollution?

I live in the middle of nowhere, so no problem with neighbors. So far, no problem with family. The only “noise pollution” complaint I get is from my Siamese cat. He absolutely loathes the sound of a harmonica. He tries to kill me whenever I play it, whenever I forget to close him off on the other side of the house. I don't think I play that badly. It must be a deep, primal instinct that comes out. That sound – maybe like a wounded sheep or goat – seems to turn him temporarily into a hungry, rampaging lion or tiger.

5. Some of us poets want to wear a Druid robe while writing. What's your preferred costume while singing/songwriting? Provide a photo if you are dressed in one at such a moment.

My recording costume is the same as my everyday costume: half the year, T-shirt and jeans; half the year, sweatshirt and jeans. If I could arrange it, though, I would really like to play guitar and record while wearing aluminum coveralls...sort of like those crinkly, platinum-looking jump suits that astronauts wore back in the day. For obvious reasons, I'd forgo the bubble helmet. But hey! Moon-walking astro-boots would be cool, too!