why there is no interest in singing
BY NANCY CHEN LONG
In these times of heave and eddy,
the people have grown
austere. Brambles should have caught flame
by now. A reluctant warrior should have emerged
to orate forth an opus. Home is where the psalm is
and so I choral my offspring as I am able,
encourage them to emote their own opera,
compose a truth—some chord of code, perhaps a hex
in A minor, one not locked into that logic
of the common meter.
My young dutifully mouth the sanctioned libretto.
Their syncopated arrangements are an alien strain
unwelcome in the standard repertoire.
They cannot outshout the refrain
that programs them to whitewash. To be an asset
in today’s troupe demands a singer
eschew all appearances
of singing. Improvisation invites discord—
so many more doorkeepers now.
The homeland beats with a wind-bluffed,
who like every boot to be on the ground, to die
with their boots on.
A call to voice is a call to asphyxiation.
Too soon song will be roped
into the service of boots.