Song writer
Lucinda would write songs that were dark
Too intense, probed recesses of the soul
She'd wake up with a phrase, clear and stark
Write down a few lines, get on a roll.
Pull out a meaning, get the right tone
Find where the spirit meets the bone.
Irving Berlin rose from nowhere to fame
He says a song must have longing inside
Some of his biggest hits he felt were a shame
But if I wrote "white Christmas," I would feel pride.
He gave some profits to the father of his wife
The father had disowned her, an irony of life.
Mary says the song can write itself
when that happens, it keeps her trying more
A finished song makes her feel outside herself
Like a growth spurt or letting the spirit soar.
A couple of chords, then a walk in the plain.
The guitar kicks it off; a new song learns its name.
John was asked to end an album with a love song
He drove to Big Sur, then back to L.A.
Tried to feel the ways people get along
The lines poured out, he'd made his day
"like a fire when it's cold outside, or thunder when it rains."
"Perhaps Love" became a classic, reached the halls of fame.
Some don't feel music, others don't want it to take hold
The Taliban forbids songs, treat them as a crime
I know some folk who say music leaves them cold
And public taste can flip on a dime.
But when a good song hits the airwaves, it's a nice surprise
A new way of saying what applies.
John Denver, Lucinda Williams, Mary Carpenter and more
Like art in general, worthwhile to explore.
Lucinda starts with phrases, Mary starts with her guitar
Some songs are team efforts; each way can make a star.
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