Lyrics and Ideas: Seeds, Roots, Trunks, and Branches.

I write music in a band. Since my teenage years the bulk of my creative writing has been of the poetry kind. (Which sort of explains my bad habits when it comes to punctuation.)

Things grow. For example, today I had a lyrical idea and I wrote it down. It's just two lines really and little melody in my head. The lines are:

"Still plagued by the evils of men.

When will my rhetorical promises translate into actions?"

Like any good lyric it can be interpreted many ways. It's just a nugget of an idea. Will it ever become a song? Not even I really know. For sure it will sit written in my notebook; perhaps to be elaborated on someday; or to be forgotten. It is a seed if you will, with the possibility to grow.

In my notebook is another poem. It has grown from an idea into something bigger.

"East of Eden

I'd give you my professional opinion as a human being

But they say that doesn't count for much these days

Then again, John told me it always used to be

But if every day is the same, how in the hell does anyone change?

All our earthbound soul, desire love

Every hand on steel, seeking lover's blood

Thru man and beast we cut, and sink our teeth into

Murder's not romantic, no killing's not a cure

Through betrayal trust is lost. But his love will never leave.

He keeps it deep inside now, where no one else can be

You could choose to wield the weapon, clencher of triggers

Gun blasts and desert sand, Eyes watering from dirty air

I think the same thing every time I go back

To that orchard East of Eden

Of wanting to leave and living forever

Of eating fish and honeycomb

Father can you forgive your son?

Windows clear and sunlight plays on shadows where green and living things live and die by wind and arrow and I'm reading of power and healing my soul and my mind is quickened by the light of ancestral touch and I'm leaving and I'll be back I'll be back."

I think of he above poem more as an actual planted seed that has become a small plant. It is breathing a little and trying to figure out how to survive. It needs care and attention otherwise known as editing.

If "East of Eden" were to be put into song-form some things would change. Lines would be added and removed, because at the end of the day lyrics are secondary to the music. The lyrics support the music (exceptions noted of course, such as ballads and epic-story songs).

The verse that begins "I think the same thing every time I go back..." Seems to me to be the logical and emotional refrain or chorus, and I originally wrote the lines with that in mind.

The last little bit which begins with "Windows clear and sunlight plays..." sort of reads like a poetic rant. I imagined that as a coda. It would end the song powerfully and stream of consciousness-like, with a dramatic chord or key change. I've done it in other songs and I really dig it. You don't see it too often in popular music. (Also, I'd most likely extend and lengthen the lyrical content in said coda.)

Some parts of the above seem melodramatic to me. I wanted to change them while I was typing them. I stopped myself with the idea that maybe I'll post the edited version someday for comparison.

(note: I know that "clencher" is not a real word, but I like the sound of it.)

Now we've seen a seed and something that has taken root. Let's take a look at a finished product, a fully grown tree if you will.

This next poem went through a few re-writes I've unfortunately either lost or misplaced the evidences of the evolution, (A rock n' roll band's studio is a chaotic place mind you) but the finished product is on my hard drive, and can be heard in completed song form here: Belly of the Whale's myspace. (And I am the dork on acoustic guitar and vocals.)

Hands Made of Stone

(music and lyrics by Nicholas James West, arranged and performed by Belly of the Whale)

Whisper in your ear

Next to broken beehives

Can you remember what I said?

Grandpa's place is empty

Full of spider's web

My mother's gone and lost her mind

Grandpa's hands were made of stone, of black and white and gray

Scared of men and dusty moths and sleeping far away

Jet-streaming on blue skies and Christmas when I cried

My brother's bleeding ear and my uncle's pride

Watching for the "Rain Man"

Stories told of ghosts

Those childish things left behind

My lip was busted open

Apricots on broken eggs

I'll never forget his angry face

Grandpa's hands were made of stone, of black and white and gray

Scared of men and dusty moths and sleeping far away

Jet-streaming on blue skies and Christmas when he died

My brother's bleeding ear and my uncle's pride

Watching for the "Rain Man"

Stories told of ghosts...

This final poem/song has a couple things of note that I think are interesting.

In the recorded version I forgot to say "and Christmas when he died" during the second refrain/chorus. Also, when I sing this live I usually croon "I'll never forget my father's face." at the end of the fourth verse.

So performance changes a poem too. And that, my friends, defines the branches of a song or poem. They spread out and follow the Sun, or go to strange heights. They are hard to control, but they end up working out in the end. They need to be pruned and refined (practice, practice, practice); and most importantly they grow.