The Yearn for Music

[Mr. Jelly]

I ran into a strange little book. It was written by Sergeant Patrick Gass the chief carpenter of the Lewis and Clark expedition. It's not really a journal but then it kind of is. It's not really a book of poems bit then they kind of are. This is one page that he wrote, in the way in which he wrote in 1806, coming back to the United States.

When Cruzatte for whatever reason
refuses to break out the fiddle,
we manage with our own lame voices
to fill the unfillable void.

Something in the form of a hum
to begin with, something that eventually
wants words, words that
like the humming are easy

and poorly but devoutly
remembered.

And once upon a time,
I tied on my carpenter's apron
to become the waiter to serve them,
pouring from my flask a stream
of unending wine to fill their goblets.

Ah, music. Ah, words. How, singing
softly, the meanest among us
becomes all heartstring and
moonglow.

And the flask I serve them from
is the one I brought from home, from
Catfish Camp to the Ohio to the place
I chance to be standing on
when I joined the Corps
to be stationed here where at night
what we can't otherwise say in daylight
we can say in song.

[Denny B]

Originally Posted by Mr. Jelly

I ran into a strange little book. It was written by Sergeant Patrick Gass the chief carpenter of the Lewis and Clark expedition. It's not really a journal but then it kind of is. It's not really a book of poems bit then they kind of are. This is one page that he wrote, in the way in which he wrote in 1806, coming back to the United States.

When Cruzatte for whatever reason
refuses to break out the fiddle,
we manage with our own lame voices
to fill the unfillable void.

Something in the form of a hum
to begin with, something that eventually
wants words, words that
like the humming are easy

and poorly but devoutly
remembered.

And once upon a time,
I tied on my carpenter's apron
to become the waiter to serve them,
pouring from my flask a stream
of unending wine to fill their goblets.

Ah, music. Ah, words. How, singing
softly, the meanest among us
becomes all heartstring and
moonglow.

And the flask I serve them from
is the one I brought from home, from
Catfish Camp to the Ohio to the place
I chance to be standing on
when I joined the Corps
to be stationed here where at night
what we can't otherwise say in daylight
we can say in song.

I know poetry when I read it...eloquent, beautifully worded and kind of makes you feel like you're there with the writer...

Thanks for posting...

[Nyghthawk]

Beautifully written. Eloquent, yet simple. Thoughtful and emotive.

Ditto on the thanks for posting comment.