1.
First the glances this way and that of
indecision likening the haphazard ant
viewed from stories above when young
and full of magnification and sunlight.
The wait at the diner between calls,
meeting the unwind after work,
possibly drink, possibly cigarette,
but never clear sky confirmed, penned.
We’ve all dragged the hem of a tattoo
from here to there, the email in the draft
folder, the tick tock of hallway love
in time. In time. Every space a potential
waiting game and especially now—moments
before the must lift, shot ripping gravity’s
cloth—we must to other flying things.
2.
Let’s surround ourselves with windows
in a room filled with light. No. Let’s sit
and stare through one, then, on another
day, which will seem forever away, let’s
open them wide so as to invite the wind,
the feathers from other lovers it carries.
No. That will not be enough either.
Let us draw windows on the page then,
one line each for the rest of our lives
with no intention to ever finish, no end
and miles of fixed distance, perpetual
longing for something one will see
everyday, glorious and same, well-lit
and, inevitably, punished by the frames.
3.
Up in this air, there is nothing but pause.
The best you can do is think about it
over and over again like tops on their sides.
The height is silence, which also is halt.
In life, if you’re lucky you get a few
meaningful ones that lift an idea to
and because of new elevations:
on a swing, after a passing away
of some dear friend’s sister,
a child almost and never quite born.
Up in the air, who needs music at all?
The break is a wholly different demand
to make history, to be heard, human.
4.
Before the staid steadying of modernity,
the rocking was a gift and the shore
lost in mist and fog, a lift for the heart.
Before the leaving the pier the waves,
the glowing last farewells to leveling,
were love. After the new and every horizon
this stopping of two forces of beauty,
this meet and form a line between.
And always, at sea, the line changes,
but the compass points. The surge
and the heave, no oars anymore for
the most part, but still reaching into
the water to see how far we need to go.
5.
To think, a life drenched in pursuit
through the thick other atmosphere
can result in literature. To dream that
siren in the night, alive and swollen
bell, can mean finality and flowers
at the finish line. These meditations
are born in gray weather, stoned whale
water, mountain flow through the ripples
of which one can spend an eternity
or think about eternity, whichever
comes first. Or watch it as it moans
through the invisible beneath making
all the suddens in the world freeze tag.
Songwriter, poet, and educator Alan Semerdjian has been making and performing music in the NYC/Long Island area and beyond since 1990. His entire annotated musical catalog will be available exclusively here on bandcamp by 2023.
A female voice that feels out of another century quivers over a folk harp on the 11 tracks that make up this exclusive video album. Bandcamp New & Notable Jun 14, 2016
Warm synths, tape loops, kosmiche guitar, and folk melodies meet in a record that explores the relationship of the moon to the tides. Bandcamp New & Notable Jun 8, 2023
Martin John Henry (De Rosa) and Robert Dallas Gray (Life Without Buildings) make dreamy, improvised, folk-inflected music together. Bandcamp New & Notable Apr 12, 2022