I have been too long without seeing any live music as, I am sure, have you. This poem was prompted by another, The Road to Jericho. At one point the two poems were going to be two parts of the same poem, but that did not work.
The favourite gigs are not the famous ones
you’ve talked those to death on chat shows,
with journalists eager for new insights,
at stage doors with fans,
where you listened to the significance
your music has on their lives.
The best gigs just happen,
when the movement of your fingers,
of your lips, tongue,
shape the air into exactly
what the moment means.
Words are unnecessary
for you are the music
and the music is you.
You can tell that the poems are connected because this one describes playing a horn [in this case a saxophone] and in the other those walls came tumbling down.
May I take this opportunity to wish you and yours all the best for the new year.
As all the photographs in this post are taken at a Midlake gig from a very long time ago. I will leave you with Midlake.
Until next time.