Tuesday, December 08, 2015

Mersey Ó Bhéal

By the telepathic act of wish fulfillment, came Lonnie
Donegan's Bridgeton Skiffle and Bridie Gallagher's

Donegal sean nós. And live from St Peter's garden
rock gods in pale elemental form found wisdom

through friendship, when John finished a daytime set,
stepped off the back of a lorry-stage, and first met Paul

at the fete of a church where Eleanor Rigby's history
was sealed after the night gig, in a place philosophers

preach friendship. The church hall Woolton rocked
to Berry and Presley direct from the Quarrymen

Lennon's mob on home turf; a plusher suburb than
Speke, McCartney's manor. And thus their partnership

began, where music rolls melodic and silent Sophia's
poetic hand, in a Mersey omphalos, the Well of Segais,

beneath hazel, dealt soft dappled showers of sienna
light upon reed and sedge as it wavered and ripples

in ageless dumb wisdom, folding through strings
in a wind chime of history that rings a bell our mind

cannot muffle. Animal voice, the fictional eyewitness
woven within, who'll rock, out-pour, and apportion

in proper ennobling form, myths Her chief creators
mouth in works of air. They accomplish detachment

and sight the island goddess of memory, Honey gob
Ogma and Amergin the White-knee, who gift us fully,

half, or none, knowledge of Eber and Eremon. Their
wheel spun diverse in chance as death spells nurture

philosophies; draft and balance humanity's egg
in cosmic incubus to lie right-side up, no short cuts

or improper attempts at self wisdom. Just the logical
art-god weaving a question on rock 'n roll rooting in

a person: If the bow & lyre both are strung, through
good-body Sir Paul, or the soul of bono Saint John?

~

Some say all who knew he did nothing without soul
know John learnt the art of rock and roll with Paul;

that they are symbiotic, in the body of all fans'
fictional cauldrons, tilting or not. And those possessing

a Revolver, Abbey Road, and Rock And Roll Music 
Volume One, will know the word of John, and holler

along to Bad Boy, Twist and Shout, I Call Your Name
and Imagine, the reality of this orbiting sound-force,

whispering a knowledge they hear via him; destiny's
child filled fully upright, decoding ancestral music,

chosen to color and program humanity. Sir Paul

singing Long Tall Sally, I Saw Her Standing There, 
Kansas City and I Wanna Be Your Man, was destined

to come; through John, past I Wanna Hold Your Hand,
beyond a void of prerequisite ability, to the widest

reach of experience, and easily ascend in oracular shift,
one cauldron side-slanting, another on its lips, both

stir in a fictional pot: no fire or hell below us, above
us only

thought.

Imagine the brotherhood of man, its easy if you find
one body and soul, who remotely taught all less able

at turning a rhyme-bag born slanted how to become
gods: the good Sir Paul and bono Saint John, who eye

from a planetary rhythm in people of bard-craft; reveal
to a poet searching for tropes, each time they'll rock

or fold in silence an epithet driving lofty in a life-pan
filled with sung event. Sing in a voice fully effable,

balanced on it's back by sorrow, ineluctable mimesis,
poetical process of time, trial, hope, unaired draughts

of Sophia from the hearth of mystery, and mythical
Mersey wisdom, to rock from Woolton and Speke,

and fleet with their reflection in a well of friendship,
upright.

Kevin Desmond

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