“Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens.” -Talking Heads
But does perfectly pitched singing count
as nothing, no hours and hours
of Monday night choir practice
in the damp basement of St. John’s,
where Mrs. McKinney screeched her way
to high C, where the Messiah was never
an option, but neither were electric
anything: guitars, drums, portable keyboards
appearing miraculously beside the altar. No,
none of that—in this new location,
just the automatic symphony of seraphim
with impeccable timing, expertly directing
the already on-key and smiling
now immortal mortals easily channeling
their praise into song in this Carnegie Hall
of the afterlife where the sonorous
could never be part of the same
score as boring, right? When
my dance-band piano-playing father
died, my mother read everything
on Paradise, its crescendo of happiness,
its chorus of delight in the acoustically
correct expanse of heavenly mansions,
but never—through the long silent grief
of our Midwestern home—did she hit Play,
though we did, my father’s recorded
boogie-woogie bouncing off the man-
made walls and through our patched roof,
exuberant enough for exaltation,
for full-throated eternity, beautifully
busy with be-bop and dance,
improv and jive.
Marjorie Maddox is a treasure. Her poetry sings grace and hope and even humor or dark times. Her words “exuberant enough for exaltation” describe not only the music but also the poem and the poet. Beautiful, beautiful piece.
Mary Alice, your kind words are a blessing. Thank you.