Leaves
It is all but impossible to tell but there are in fact two very specific experiences being described here.
One: A place called Inis Mór of the west coast of Ireland – this is the first ‘here’. This is the place where a dying language is continually under siege – even, it would seem, by the same winds that erode its haggard cliffs.
Two: Remembrance Day, 2003 – I emerged into the main terminal at Standsted airport with all of the fierce gusto of a budget airline traveler only to be confronted by an arresting tableaux of businessmen, tourists, baggage handlers, and flight attendants. All of them were caught for two minutes, mid-stride and photograph-still in remembrance of fallen soldiers while the Last Post played over the PA. At the two minute mark the sound and the fury resumed as though nothing had ever happened.
The rest of the song draws heavily on Walt Whitman’s poem “Vocalism”, as does the title from a combination of “Leaves of Grass” and “Here The Frailest Leaves of Me.” -J
Here - a welcome deafness in the air.
Here - aware.
Here - a hold on words
As frail as words themselves.
Hear the sound of cause effecting cause.
Hear a pause to let the horn tear through -
And post last post resume.
Speak not the frailest whispers;
Sound the alarm we’re sound asleep.