[John Riley]

Songs

And my songs are burned, so I will never have to sing. To not sing is the greatest pleasure, much more so than watching the poor singers, the ones who had no reprieve from standing in the sun that never left, that pins them to the ground, a butterfly on a board, while their mouths open and close and their song bellows forth. Each song is written by the singer, who works under pressure to make their songs hideous, to blare like a donkey wishing for death, or the squawk of a crow falling from the fired sky a last time. Songs are the most hated thing, here beneath the constant cacophony of planets roaring past and stars flashing into the final fire. Why do we not love a beautiful song, I once asked a young boy, and the answer given was the sharp black-cutting stare of the men around me. There is so little language here. We learn from the looks, the touches, the prodding into movement. Only I, in the deepest recess of our subterranean home, scribble and hum my beautiful songs, then burn them, before I am discovered and left outside, alone, to go mad in the heaven’s screams.

[James Midgley]

Hi John,

I really enjoyed this. I like the semi-fantastical scene, which reminds me obliquely of scifi body horror and Plato's allegory of the cave.

I think some cuts are available.

And my songs are burned, so I will never have to sing.

-- The sense of continuity offered by 'and' doesn't do much for me; I think you can lose it.

To not sing is the greatest pleasure, much more so than watching the poor singers, the ones who had no reprieve from standing in the sun that never left, that pins them to the ground, a butterfly on a board, while their mouths open and close and their song bellows forth.

-- Here 'that never left' seems like a strange after-thought, a touch over-pedantic. The pinned butterfly metaphor jolts me because I'm aware of trying to match the singers (plural) to the butterfly (singular). The image is made stronger for me if you remove 'and their songs bellow forth' -- they seem all the more helpless for it.

Each song is written by the singer, who works under pressure to make their songs hideous, to blare like a donkey wishing for death, or the squawk of a crow falling from the fired sky a last time.

-- The 'hideous' turn is unexpected and effective, but I'd suggest picking just one simile -- probably the donkey. I wonder if 'blare' is quite right -- rather than being an interesting departure in itself, it just reminds me of the expected 'bray' which it doesn't look too dissimilar from. But I'm nitpicking.

Songs are the most hated thing, here beneath the constant cacophony of planets roaring past and stars flashing into the final fire.

-- I wonder if you need the latter half of the sentence at all. 'Songs are the most hated thing' may work better for its blunt oddness. But if you want to keep the rest, I'd suggest a little cutting back -- it feels like cacophony and roaring are doing similar work, for instance. But I do notice that the sudden alliteration and excess are doing something mimetic.

Why do we not love a beautiful song, I once asked a young boy, and the answer given was the sharp black-cutting stare of the men around me.

-- The logic creaks a little -- because the 'we' surely also acknowledges that these songs are made as 'hideous' as possible. Would the speaker even recognise these (or any) song as beautiful? I feel as if 'black-cutting' is there only to try to disrupt the familiar collocation 'sharp stare'.

There is so little language here. We learn from the looks, the touches, the prodding into movement. Only I, in the deepest recess of our subterranean home, scribble and hum my beautiful songs, then burn them, before I am discovered and left outside, alone, to go mad in the heaven’s screams.

-- I'm not sure 'in the heaven's screams' is quite right yet. It may be over-reaching.

Anyway, I enjoyed this quite a bit, as I say. It very economically creates its strange and disturbing world. I hope these comments are of use and, in the meantime -- thanks for the read.

[Cally Conan-Davies]

It's a difficult one to talk about, John. So I imagine it might have been a difficult one to write. But perhaps not? Perhaps it burst forth powered by an inner necessity. The anguish of a man with a profound sense of beauty in a barbarous world. It reminds me of some of HG Wells' stories. But it's not an allegory. There's a deep interiority here. The whole thing is a mood, a feeling. Songs and singing are usually human activities that bring joy and release. It's shocking to consider a reality where NOT singing is "the greatest pleasure".

There is a wild power to the poem, to the speaker of the poem. It's disturbing, effective, memorable.

Cally

[John Riley]

James, thanks for the suggestions. I’m pleased you like most of what’s here. I will keep what you suggest for rewriting when I let it settle a bit.

Cally, it’s clearly difficult to respond to. Only two people have tried. It did burst out. Who knows where it comes from. Thanks for reading and your insights. They are always valuable.

[W T Clark]

Yes: I like this very much. Midge's suggestions are my own. Except science fiction isn't what I imagine but rather Josephine, or the Mousesinger in a postmodern slum. I owe you a letter: could you write me?

Hope this helps.

[Matt Q]

Hi John,

I also found this very striking. It pulled me in and held my attention throughout, and pulled me in back to reread it. It's an apocalyptic scenario. Approaching heat death. Stars dying, planets possibly out of orbit. Humanity clinging on, having moved underground. The sun is fiery, seemingly a constant presence, and the fire is "final". End of days stuff. At the same time it reads like an allegory.

Some thoughts:

And my songs are burned, so I will never have to sing

I agree with James on that initial "And". Also, with "and", "my songs are burned" seems to have more of a sense of finality to it, as if he had songs once, but just has burned them all. Whereas at the close we learn is it's an ongoing process: he continues to compose and then burn his songs.

In fact, even minus the "and", "my songs are burned" is ambiguous as to whether it means: "I burn my songs" or "I have burned my songs". I wonder if "I burn my songs" might not be an option for the opening.

To not sing is the greatest pleasure, much more so than watching the poor singers, the ones who had no reprieve from standing in the sun that never left, that pins them to the ground, a butterfly on a board, while their mouths open and close and their song bellows forth.

Contra James, I like "that never left" because since it seems to imply that the sun might have left, left the planet behind, and had perhaps even been expected to. It also can be read as suggesting it never leaves the sky, I think -- that on the surface, it is permanent day. Both of which, I think, are interesting possibilities that add something to the description of this world.

I did wonder if the butterfly might be a moth, since these are drawn from the darkness into flames to their doom, and something similar is happening to the singers. But I also suspect that this might be a very bad idea! Plus, you'd lose the alliteration, and currently the p and b sounds are combining nicely. I can see how the butterfly might be there to the evoke fragility and beauty of the singers.

Still, the butterfly strikes me as an image that doesn't quite belong in the poem, or at least not in the bleak world the poem evokes. These are a subterranean people, there would be no butterflies underground, and above ground, it seems would be scorched. What would the N know of butterfly collecting? Or at least, that's how I'm imagining this world. But maybe that's just me.

Each song is written by the singer, who works under pressure to make their songs hideous, to blare like a donkey wishing for death, or the squawk of a crow falling from the fired sky a last time.

Does the latter part say, "to blare like a donkey ... or to blare like the squawk of a crow falling from the fired sky a last time"? Can a squawk blare? If that's not the intention, there seems to be something missing -- and to me it does read like something is missing. It seems to need to be "to blare like a donkey ... or to [something] like the squawk of a crow falling from the fired sky a last time". Alternatively: "to blare like a donkey wishing for death, or squawk like a crow falling ...". Like James, I'm unsure about "blare".

My understanding is that these singers have been banished to the surface to go mad. I wonder why the singer "works under pressure". Who is applying the pressure? Are they applying it to themselves?

Songs are the most hated thing, here beneath the constant cacophony of planets roaring past and stars flashing into the final fire.

I wonder if you need "songs are the most hated thing here". We can deduce that songs are hated from the fact they are not loved and the reaction of the men to the N's question as to why they are not, and also from the fact that anyone who sings is expelled, forced up into the fiery sun. Maybe this spells things out too much?

I can imagine that even underground, the cacophony of planets roaring past could be heard, but the "flashing" of the stars gave me pause. The flashing would not be seen (and in fact, the stars could not be seen given the, as I read it, the constant fiery sunlight). And can flashing considered be part of a cacophony, if it's not a sound? OK, the flashing could be happening unseen, the flash could be deduced, and it could result in a cosmically loud noise, but I wonder if there's another word than "flashing" that gives an auditory image?

Finally, I think the title could be doing more. I don't think it really has any impact on the poem as it stands.

best,

Matt

[John Riley]

Thanks, Cam, for the K. reference. Perhaps it isn't a coincidence I've been listening and reading along to The Trial and other things. I'll try to write soon.

Matt, I always value your detailed notes. I don't know how you do it but I always think/hope you're learning a great deal from doing them. As always, I will keep your suggestions for revision.