The Swan Song

For everything you do, there will be a last time that you do it (Sam Harris)

By Rama - Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

When I search the library catalog
And retrieve the jumbled corpus of an author who is dead,
I sort the list in reverse chronological order,
Unconcerned with plaudits earned for famous work,
I choose the most recent work instead…
The swan song.
Their last words said
Before moving on. 

Leonard Cohen’s last book of lyrics and poems 
Was compiled at home.
Recorded a cappella (for posthumous production) 
At the kitchen table by his son, who said:
Even in Leonard's last year of growing isolation, 
Aware that he would soon be dead, and
Burdened by frailties of age:
“My father was never happier than when he was 
Blackening a page with words.”

Jaco performing —Photo by Chris Hakkens

Jaco Pastorius, his final word to us, 
Sung while briefly emerging from a fog of 
Drunkenness, rage, and psychosis,
Was the crystalline melody of the Mancini chestnut, 
The Days of Wine and Roses.

Florida was not good to Jaco in the end, 
But before his swan sung in a Fort Lauderdale bar,
He called a remaining friend, 
And negotiated a hiatus 
To far San Francisco, 
With only a plastic bag holding sandals in tow.
He and the friend, and a friend of the friend, formed a trio
To log a record that would be the last word of Jaco’s uneven catalog;
A final revival.
Jaco prepared for the session with three days of reading the bible.

Pastorius plays the timeless Mancini melody with angelic clarity and freshness
Unpremeditated and unrehearsed;
Dispensing the line as whimsically and without care, 
As dispersing a dandelion into the air.
The sound alternately mourns and soars, and penetrates, 
Full of foreshadow;
Of how Jaco would soon grab the tail of the tune 
And ride the same wind 
To whatever destination beckons the most gifted of us 
who have ever played an instrument,
Though none of us ever quite like Jaco Pastorius.

For me, now older than Jaco when he went, 
And not younger enough than Leonard to be significant, 
I am ever aware that for everything that we do, me and you,
There will be a final time that we do it.  And if I must choose it,
When it comes down to it 
I will always remember the last thing that you said
On your way out the door.

Bob Dylan was asked: 
“You wrote Blowing in the Wind in ten minutes. 
Where did that come from?  Could you write like that today?”
He said: “Those songs came from the wellspring of creativity.
Hey, you can’t do something forever.  I can do other things now.
But I can’t do that.”

Still, Dylan plays shows most every night.
Tonight he is in Germany, in Saarbrucken,
Playing Blowing in the Wind. Again.

Most of us live lives of ordinary miracles and ordinary moments.  
A few, like Dylan, experience winds of genius passing through.
Then the wind passes.  
The ordinary descends.
And with nothing better to do 
We simply continue on.
We find ourselves muddling along until eventually it ends.
We sing for the last time.
Our swan song.
The end of the line.

Photo by Nikoloz Gachechiladze on Unsplash