Stone Soup Servings Presents: Gordon Marshall

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Stone Soup Servings is a regular series for Oddball Magazine that features upcoming features at Stone Soup Poetry, the long-running spoken word venue in the Boston area that has recently partnered with Oddball Magazine. Stone Soup Poetry meets from 8-10 p.m. every Monday at the Out of The Blue Art Gallery at 106 Prospect Street with an open mike sign-up at 7:30 p.m.

This week, we put the spotlight on Gordon Marshall, a recent contributor to this site who just published his 27th collection of poetry, Mazy Motion. When not writing or reciting, Gordon is busy with his music blog The Flash. See him this Monday and attend the Stone Soup workshop before the reading begins.

 

Apollo Music

Apollo capsule hovers over planet, its moment of decision, where to drop the
astronaut of spirit. It could be anywhere. The spirit flows on, inundates the
surface of the new globe. But the flash of the blast of collision… it’s a shock.

Worlds end, and there are better and worse ways of ending worlds. Nuclear
annihilation, not so good. Infected chemistry stirring up warped monsters. But the
sun extinguished, simple snuff of a lamp for a good night sleep, morning in
another time and place.

So a poem ends. We can etch it in bedrock, strange glyphs for the future to read,
without sense or meaning, but the beautiful calligraphy inspiring souls, intention
of the poet transmitted through trace and dream, her name expunged like the sun
itself, but her special sway of spirit carrying in and on, and beyond.

Our names nail us to the earth as to the cross. They give us dignity. We have
titles, as poems have titles. They are a part of us. They become us. But they
were not always here, and they will not always be. They punctuate flow and
pulse, give us consciousness, the greatest gift of God. And consciousness
doesn’t end.

The conscious mind makes music out of noise. An illusion so powerful it
becomes reality. The flow of music is cosmic. It carries us beyond the human.
The poet is the human, simply put. He has a beginning and an end, just like a
song. Music is pain. It becomes beautiful because it ends.

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