ARTHOUSE: His Last Name was Birdsong - How A Work Email Became A Poem
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Press play above to follow along as I read “His Last Name was Birdsong.”
“His Last Name was Birdsong” by Maverick L. Malone
And I think what was the last thing he saw?
What words were the last he spoke?
When did he know it was going to happen,
the pinprick of time when everything narrowed
and became starbursts of hallowed light?
Was it brutal or beautiful or both? Will any of us ever know?
Is it hopeful because we don’t? Certainty at times
can spoil things. Perhaps it is better this way,
to imagine the tune that will carry us from one life
to the next; to believe that threshold
will perform its namesake and hold us;
that the sum of our parts will come to collect us.
Our legacy will be the blessings we leave behind
in everyone we have ever loved, every note we have ever sung,
the greatest one whispering us to come home
to some star-dappled indescribable Hereafter & Beyond
a summons to the birthplace of a great and infinite love.
It must be language in which even I have no words to speak.
What was it, do you think? The last thing he may have heard?
Whatever it was, I believe it’s all any of us want.
To hear our names like melodies,
sung from the mouth of god.
For those who prefer to listen as I read this article, you can do so here:
Writing often requires many steps to compile, like sewing a dress. You are first inspired by a specific fabric, perhaps its pattern, texture or design. Then an idea comes to mind, what you want to do with it, how you want it to look, the shape, its style. You lay your fabric and cut the pattern, arrange the pieces together to sew them into something that you initially saw only in your mind. I think poetry is like this at times.
Some of my poems are delivered this way, in pieces. They arrive out of order, words and phrases, imagery and precise language. I have written numerous poems where I have been gifted only the title or the first or final line. It is then my honor and privilege, my free and wild creative will, to make something of it. It’s as if the muse comes with her arms full of spools of colorful thread and mismatched swatches of fabric and asks me to make her a dress, to create in her image something that represents whatever sentiment she wishes for me to express.
Sometimes my process is like this and others, it takes only a single word for the message to channel, for some incredibly beautiful poem to be born. Today’s poem is this latter process, one of simply channeling, of allowing, of connecting with whatever holy and divine spark has chosen me in the moment to be her mouthpiece. I’m sharing it for today’s ARTHOUSE because of its curious backstory — it was derived from a work email.
Some of my favorite poems have originated from the strangest places. I prefer it this way, a kind of curious and unexpected beauty born from something ordinary that many others wouldn’t think twice about. Even fewer read into things as much as I do (I have a PhD in “making meaning”). I think this is why the muse and I dance so much, so often. She knows as well as I that I see the world through a wider lens – nothing is ever exactly what it is. “Just” rarely exists in my native tongue. As such, my work takes on a life of its own, most often rhymes unintentionally (because they are all songs), and this is what I love – the times when nothing is forced. I don’t go hunting for the words. Those sounds seek me out; I allow myself to be found.
This poem came about when I received a request at my day job to inactivate a client. The email was abrupt and strangely worded, with his last name in the subject line, the client number, and the body of the email that read:
“Good morning. This client should be inactivated. Reason is death. Thank you!”
The contrast between informing of the death of a client and the sudden “Thank you!” with its exclamation mark like a celebration struck me as a concept, the connection between death and gratitude, but what drew my poetic eye most was the last name: Birdsong. “What a beautiful last name,” I thought. I began to wonder who this man was, what life he led, what the final moments of death in general might be like. And then I heard the final line that summoned me as I began to type:
“To hear our names like melodies, sung from the mouth of god.”
With a phrase like that, I couldn’t not write. That is a call to pray upon the page if ever I heard one! I jotted it down at the bottom of a blank email and worked backwards (I love reverse engineering poems). The rest of it came to me in one fell swoop, one flap of a cardinal’s wing, one gentle whisper from whatever divine energy had chosen me. In this poem, I see — I feel — exactly how hope is the thing with feathers, indeed.
I love that this poem was inspired by a work email, and part of me likes to think Mr. Birdsong is looking over my shoulder, smiling as he reads.
With love & hope always,
