"PS-400 Old Poets- Somebody Calling My Name" by Numi Who

License $25

Album $9

song to (my) variations on excerpts of a poem "Visiting Emily Dickenson" in the book "Zone Journals" by Charles Wright; three_track

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Numi Who

I now create music so people can spend time with better company.

Cover Songs on Soundclick: https://www.soundclick.com/numiwhocreativecovers Writing: https://allpoetry.com/Mr._Numi_Who- Books: Numi Who? on Amazon (books) Art: http://wbiro.deviantart.com Early Art: http://www.flickr.com/photos/38154648@N00 Music Videos: http://www.youtube.com/user/wbiro Self-made Music Catalog (to 2016): http://numi-imagination-creations.me/01-art-catalog/wbiro_artistic_catalog_1967-2016_update_34.html Original Music on Soundcloud (more complete list there): https://soundcloud.com/wbiro Cover Songs on Soundcloud (more complete list there): https://soundcloud.com/user-288568536

Song Info

Genre

Acoustic • Acoustic Folk

Peak in subgenre #29

Author

music: wbiro

Rights

wbiro

Uploaded

November 09, 2014

Track Files

MP3

MP3 5.2 MB • 192 kbps • 3:46

Story behind the song

song to poem I found in a New Yorker magazine circa 1987; searching back, I haven't found out who wrote it yet.
Finally Found It: song to (my) variations on excerpts of a poem "Visiting Emily Dickenson" in the book "Zone Journals" by Charles Wright

Lyrics

We stood in the pavilion 
for a while,
your lost soul, and I,
and then we sat, and peered 
through the oak trees
to the distant factories,
and over to the river 
and the railroad,
and the train station 
at the crown of the hill,
and we sat there 
and sat there,
a decade or so ago.

One afternoon 
toward the end of winter,
the oak tree floating 
it's arms like a dark cloud,
and nothing came up my feet 
like electric fire,
and no one 
appeared in a white dress 
and white flowers
clutched in her tiny hands,
no voice said anything about 
living and dying in 1862.

But I liked it there, 
I liked the way the sunlight 
lay like a tablecloth 
over the windows.
I liked the boxwood and evergreens 
and the flighty sherry-eyed figure 
I thought I saw there
as the sky blossomed 
and a noiseless noise
came from the orchard.
And I sat very still and listened hard,
and I thought I heard it once more;
but there was nothing, 
nothing at all.

The glossy figure of sunlight 
smoothed out on the floorboards, 
voices beginning to drift up from down there, 
there's somebody calling my name.
Somebody calling my name...
Somebody calling my name...

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