Friday, January 15, 2021

I Cannot Go Back to Your Frownland

Born 80 years ago today, click for lots more, innermost circle of rotating seat-takers in My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game, the above song this shitty blog's Theme Song 10, the above song's lyrics below

My smile is stuckI cannot go back to your FrownlandMy spirit's made up of the oceanAnd the sky 'n' the sun 'n' the moon
N' all my eyes can seeI cannot go back to your land of gloomWhere black jagged shadowsRemind me of the coming of your doom
I want my own landTake my hand and come with meIt's not too late for youIt's not too late for me
To find my homelandWhere a man can stand by another manWithout an ego flyingWith no man lying
N' no one dying by an earthly handLet the devils burn and the beggar learnN' the little girls that live in those old worldsTake my kind hand
My smile is stuckI cannot go back to your FrownlandI cannot go back to your Frownland

1 comment:

  1. the phrases my own land and my homeland - where a man can stand by another man
    remind me of poems about the people by two twentieth-century midwesterners

    The People, Yes

    by Carl Sandburg

    The people will live on.
    The learning and blundering people will live on.
    They will be tricked and sold and again sold
    And go back to the nourishing earth for rootholds,
    The people so peculiar in renewal and comeback,
    You can't laugh off their capacity to take it.
    The mammoth rests between his cyclonic dramas.

    The people so often sleepy, weary, enigmatic,
    is a vast huddle with many units saying:
    “I earn my living.
    I make enough to get by
    and it takes all my time.
    If I had more time
    I could do more for myself
    and maybe for others.
    I could read and study
    and talk things over
    and find out about things.
    It takes time.
    I wish I had the time.”

    The people is a tragic and comic two-face:
    hero and hoodlum: phantom and gorilla
    twisting to moan with a gargoyle mouth: “They
    buy me and sell me . . . it's a game . . .
    sometime I'll break loose . . .”
    Once having marched
    Over the margins of animal necessity,
    Over the grim line of sheer subsistence
    Then man came
    To the deeper rituals of his bones,
    To the lights lighter than any bones,
    To the time for thinking things over,
    To the dance, the song, the story,
    Or the hours given over to dreaming,
    Once having so marched.

    Between the finite limitations of the five senses
    and the endless yearnings of man for the beyond
    the people hold to the humdrum bidding of work and food
    while reaching out when it comes their way
    for lights beyond the prison of the five senses,
    for keepsakes lasting beyond any hunger or death.
    This reaching is alive.
    The panderers and liars have violated and smutted it.
    Yet this reaching is alive yet
    for lights and keepsakes.
    The people know the salt of the sea
    and the strength of the winds
    lashing the corners of the earth.
    The people take the earth
    as a tomb of rest and a cradle of hope.
    Who else speaks for the Family of Man?
    They are in tune and step
    with constellations of universal law.

    The people is a polychrome,
    a spectrum and a prism
    held in a moving monolith,
    a console organ of changing themes,
    a clavilux of color poems
    wherein the sea offers fog
    and the fog moves off in rain
    and the labrador sunset shortens
    to a nocturne of clear stars
    serene over the shot spray
    of northern lights.

    The steel mill sky is alive.
    The fire breaks white and zigzag
    shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
    Man is a long time coming.
    Man will yet win.
    Brother may yet line up with brother:

    This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
    There are men who can't be bought.
    The fireborn are at home in fire.
    The stars make no noise.
    You can't hinder the wind from blowing.
    Time is a great teacher.
    Who can live without hope?

    In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
    the people march.
    In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for
    keeps, the people march:
    “Where to? what next?”

    "We Are The People"
    John Mellencamp

    If you're feelin' shut down
    May my thoughts be with you
    If you're a black man bein' beat down and shoved all around
    May my thoughts be with you
    If your world's gettin' a little too tough
    You know our thoughts are with you
    Hey, I know that it's crazy out there
    And my thoughts are with you

    We are the people
    And we live forever
    We are the people
    And our future's written on the wind
    On the wind

    If you are one of the homeless
    May our thoughts be with you
    If you are scared and alone
    You know our thoughts are with you

    If you are one of the fortunate ones
    We all know it's lonely up there
    We understand that nobody's got it made
    So our thoughts are with you


    You see yourself as a leader
    May my thoughts be with you
    If you try to divide and conquer
    We'll rise up against you
    We know only the strong will survive
    But the meek will inherit
    So if you've got a coat of arms, oh friend
    I suggest we wear it