Songs and Poems, Poems and Songs

Good friend Lee and I were speaking upon this past eve of the New Year about the decline of poetry since the dawning of the modern era (being almost dead in the postmodern). We both agreed that currently, in today's world, poets are not important people as they used to be. Men like John Donne used to make their living as poets, being employed by the Royal Court for just that purpose. Today poets have been trivialized (I blame the so called "beat generation") into snapping hippie types doing "spoken word" at any of a thousand coffee shops across the nation. However, Lee postulated, and I agree, that truly our greatest poets are songwriters now. The great poems of our time are in our music, just as David wrote the psalms to be sung.

Of all the music I listen too, very little could be considered poetry. Yet there are some artists out their who fit the bill. The band Jars of Clay would be one, I'd argue, and my example is the song "Oh my God" off their latest studio album Good Monsters. Listening to the song nearly breaks my heart every time, but reading the words as print, as a poem, is just as effective...if not more. In such way, I think, is a song truely poetry.

"Oh My God"

Oh my God, look around this place
Your fingers reach around the bone
You set the break and set the tone
Flights of grace, and future falls
In present pain
All fools say, "Oh my God"

Oh my God, Why are we so afraid?
We make it worse when we don't bleed
There is no cure for our disease
Turn a phrase, and rise again
Or fake your death and only tell your closest friend
Oh my God.

Oh my God, can I complain?
You take away my firm belief and graft my soul upon your grief
Weddings, boats and alibis
All drift away, and a mother cries

Liars and fools; sons and failures
Thieves will always say
Lost and found; ailing wanderers
Healers always say
Whores and angels; men with problems
Leavers always say
Broken hearted; separated
Orphans always say
War creators; racial haters
Preachers always say
Distant fathers; fallen warriors
Givers always say
Pilgrim saints; lonely widows
Users always say
Fearful mothers; watchful doubters
Saviors always say

Sometimes I cannot forgive
And these days, mercy cuts so deep
If the world was how it should be, maybe I could get some sleep
While I lay, I dream we're better,
Scales were gone and faces light
When we wake, we hate our brother
We still move to hurt each other
Sometimes I can close my eyes,
And all the fear that keeps me silent falls below my heavy breathing,
What makes me so badly bent?
We all have a chance to murder
We all feel the need for wonder
We still want to be reminded that the pain is worth the thunder

Sometimes when I lose my grip, I wonder what to make of heaven
All the times I thought to reach up
All the times I had to give
Babies underneath their beds
Hospitals that cannot treat all the wounds that money causes,
All the comforts of cathedrals
All the cries of thirsty children - this is our inheritance
All the rage of watching mothers - this is our greatest offense

Oh my God
Oh my God
Oh my God