Jorma Kaukonen – Genesis

Time has come for us to pause
And think of living as it was
Into the future we must cross, must cross
I’d like to go with you
And I’d like to go with you
You say I’m harder than a wall
A marble shaft about to fall
I love you dearer than them all, them all
So let me stay with you
So let me stay with you
And as we walked into the day
Skies of blue had turned to grey
I might have not been clear to say, to say
I never looked away
I never looked away
And though I’m feeling you inside
My life is rolling with the tide
I’d like to see it be an open ride
Along with you
Going along with you
The time we borrowed from ourselves
Can’t stay within a vaulted well
And living turns into a lender’s will
So let me come with you
And let me come with you
And when we came out into view
And there I found myself with you
When breathing felt like something new, new
Along with you
Going along with you

(Jorma performing around 1990 at D.O.C. Music Club Studio on Italian TV)

On Turning Twenty (a guest poem)

+ It’s always a pleasure to read young and inspiring poets. Through Twitter I discovered Rebecca, 20y (@MistakenMagic). She has a way of looking at and describing reality as an outsider, while at the same time being part of it. This tension often creates a beautiful imagery, sustained with striking metaphors. Today she published the following poem, and for me, it was if it “opened a window to the ceilings of my youth”. At one point we all “turn twenty”, and in my eyes, we always keep on turning twenty 🙂

On Turning Twenty

“I feel old. But not very wise.” – Jenny Mellor

Facebook, the graveyard of past best friends.
I find that, at twenty, one has a twelve-week scan
as their profile picture. Tiny fists like little bunches
of static. The ballooning white arc of the head
chalked onto the crackling black.

A lad who once dated the baby’s mother
got married last month, has a kid of his own,
and is off to serve in Afghanistan.
My mother was married at twenty.

At thirteen, twenty was a scary age.
It was “proper grown-up an’ that”.
Now I’m not so sure what it means
to be grown-up. Or if I’m there yet.

So, I can cook risotto and know
what a garlic crusher looks like.
I have postage stamps and paracetemol
in my purse. I pay rent.
I bear the scars and scraped knees
from the first time I fell in love.

I wonder what my third decade holds;
maybe I’ll get a tattoo in Chinese or Sanskrit,
on my ankle or the bottom of my back.

Maybe I’ll indulge a few more clichés
and take a French lover who will teach me
that ‘oui’ can hold far more breath than ‘yes’.
We will smoke Gauloises cigarettes
in bed after we have made love,
a crystal ashtray lying in the valley
of white sheets between our knees…

I still haven’t seen America or Japan.
In daydreams I see the soft white and orange
water-colours of a Koi pond in Hiroshima,
and the black lines of buildings in Brooklyn.

I don’t know what the future holds,
but I’m sure I’ll spend my years
as most twenty-something women do,
trying not to turn into my mother,
and by doing so…become her.

You can find more of Rebecca’s poetry (Mistaken Magic) here.

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