LYRICS FROM ‘MARA, MARIETTA’

The lyrics I present here are woven into the fabric of my novel, Mara, Marietta. I wrote them for Sprague, the hero of the novel. He is a poet and rock-song lyricist. In rock, in particular, lyrics are not self-standing: without music, without the singular sense of ear over eye, listening over reading—without the quickening of the body in conjunction with the galvanization of the brain—a lyric on a page is a poor thing. The same could be said, to a lesser degree, for a play on the page or, to a greater degree, a film script. Like a play in performance or a film in its final cut, a lyric in a rock song, be it live or recorded, partakes of a magic synthesis in which the whole is not only greater than but other than the sum of its parts. The challenge I faced in writing lyrics for Sprague, then, was to infuse the breath of music into the words on the page while leaving composer and musicians¹ sufficient oxygen to realize the ‘magic synthesis’ on stage or in the studio. In Mara, Marietta, during the course of a meal Sprague and Marietta share with Rolf and Magda, a couple they meet in Iceland, Sprague says to Magda: ‘I’m not a good lyricist’. What I meant to convey in giving Sprague that line was my frustration that the transcendent independence of a song can, at best, only be hinted at by lyrics on a page, for lyrics, by definition, are dependent on music. I leave you, dear reader, to read these lyrics and see if, for you, they hint at transcendence.

1 – The composer and musicians are Gram McElhone (the songwriter) and Seedy Friedrich (the band), for whom Sprague writes the lyrics. All, of course, are but products of my imagination.

Black-winged kites block out the sky,
The Wall is down, the fence is high;
In the architect’s vision intimidation is found
In the massed concrete, the treeless ground.

Forgotten, who cares, the children they roam;
A hole in the ground is what they call home.

Ghostly fog around the streetlights,
Ice on the wires, wind that bites;
Out of a car a man pushes a boy:
Life is dangerous in the division of joy.

Forgotten, who cares, the children they roam;
A hole in the ground is what they call home.

Fire pot, potatoes and lard,
Burnt-out buildings, mud in the backyard;
Shattered glass, in the mirror a girl,
Lipstick and heels to conquer the world.

Forgotten, who cares, the children they roam;
A hole in the ground is what they call home.

What is to be done with Lenin’s legacy?
Will we ever get over the twentieth century?
Man against man and God against all,
The whore of ideology is always on call.

Forgotten, who cares, the children they roam;
A hole in the ground is what they call home.

Will he remember, when he’s old and grey,
How his heart would flutter to the sway of her swing?
Will she remember, when she’s past her day,
The kindling power of her petticoats?

Hearts like bells, celebrate the living
Mourn the dead, break the lightning

Toothless and dribbling, will he still recall
The arch of her instep, the sandal, the fall?
Her poise at the still-point between surrender and retreat,
Eyeless and infirm, will it still taste sweet?

Hearts like bells, celebrate the living
Mourn the dead, break the lightning

The thrill of expectation, the sudden glimpse—
Will they reminisce about their frivolity?
Will they be convinced by the instant’s eloquence
That to transience the flower owes its beauty?

Hearts like bells, celebrate the living
Mourn the dead, break the lightning

What is the wound that drives me to wandering?

A foreigner lives within me.
He says I’m relative, not absolute.
He says forever I shall remain aloof,
Unable to take root.
Incessantly he shapes and reshapes me,
Leaving me no routine or rest.

What is the wound that drives me to wandering?

A stranger lives within me.
He knows my loss is irredeemable.
He knows my secrets, my particular alienation.
He peels back my mask: Who are you, in the end?
There is no end.

What is the wound that drives me to wandering?

An outsider lives within me.
He says my freedom is the freedom
To refuse, the freedom of solitude.
Over an empire of nothing
—experience passes, memory persists—
He leaves me to reign supreme.

What is the wound that drives me to wandering?

An alien lives within me.
He says however great my courage,
It can never overcome my humiliation.
He says whatever I undertake
Is doomed to futility:
I am condemned to turn round and round
In the saga of myself.

What is the wound that drives me to wandering?

The chutney in the curry
The attar in the rose
The silk in the mulberry
The dots on the dominoes

It’s you, my love, you who are delicious!

The tongue in the bell
The fuse in the dynamite
The bucket in the well
The venom in the snakebite

It’s you, my love, you who are delicious!

The doubt in the definite
The horn on the unicorn
The who in the whodunnit
The oak in the acorn

It’s you, my love, you who are delicious!

‘Don’t move’ said the curfew man
‘Infidel’, the Ayatollah
‘Buy buy buy’ said the TV ad
‘Five minutes to go’, the prison guard

Yes, I was feeling bad
Had many reasons to be sad
Then out of the blue she said ‘I love you’
Now I’m happier
Happier than I’ve any right to be
Any right to be

‘Suffocate him’ said the torturer
‘Burn his groves’, the colonist
‘The whole village’ said the general
‘Every house’, the militiaman

Yes, I was feeling bad
Had many reasons to be sad
Then out of the blue she said ‘I love you’
Now I’m happier
Happier than I’ve any right to be
Any right to be

Now the day is done, night’s come along
There’s love in her eyes and fear in my soul
You see, it’s not the world of horrors
That’s worrying me, it’s something
Long-standing deep inside of me
That makes me say when she says ‘I love you’
That I’m happier
Happier than I’ve any right to be
Any right to be

‘Burn the book’ said the preacher
‘War is peace’, the politician
‘Seal the border’ said the voter
‘Loose the dogs’, the policeman

Yes, I was feeling bad
Had many reasons to be sad
Then out of the blue she said ‘I love you’
Now I’m happier
Happier than I’ve any right to be
Any right to be

The idiot boy
In a witch’s box
On the island of Murano;
The sixth ejaculation,
The blood in the sperm,
The excess that mirrors starvation:
Casanova

Loving the Venetian, loving the Venetian
Yes she loves the Venetian in me

Withholding nothing,
Hoarding nothing,
Giving without calculation;
The scandal of pleasure,
The impudence of daring,
The refusal of shame and compunction:
Casanova

Loving the Venetian, loving the Venetian
Yes she loves the Venetian in me

Stealer of fire,
Protector of darkness,
The generosity of the poor;
Lover of women,
Abhorrer of suffering,
The honesty of the outlaw:
Casanova

Loving the Venetian, loving the Venetian
Yes she loves the Venetian in me