Bonnie Demerjian
The Cure
Those with nature-blindness call them LBBs— little brown birds, too dull to bother naming. They scratch and mutter in the undergrowth, these prosy beings, tireless in their search for sustenance. But see, that central spot that marks the heart, rich racing stripes that grace their head and hear—they start to practice on a winter day but come the longer light, their voice a tonic. Liquid golden drops spill from their throats to fortify dry spirits suffering too much dark. Drink up and let the sparrow’s lilting song restore. Scorn this tiny healer nevermore. Duly Noted You do not have to be good to be a singer. The crystal notes of Joan Baez, clear as the sky on spring’s first day, you admired them so. They are not yours. They never were. Still, you can thrill to your own high D, confident it will never (hardly ever) split and shatter at your feet. And if your voice betrays you, belting forth a chicken squawk? You’re older. You can laugh and carry on with your intended tune. It’s the filling of your lungs, the expansion and the letting go, the tossing of your layman’s joy into the world, that’s why you sing. Going it alone is agile freedom, but when your voice meets others, a curious chemistry begins to brew. Shrill soprano, mumbled alto, straining tenor, and at the bottom of the pot, the bass. An earnest stew of unpromising ingredients. Add a pinch of your own voice, an herb well-rooted in your body and your life. Now you’ve stirred up some delicious home-cooked harmony. |
Bonnie Demerjian writes from her island home in Southeast Alaska in the midst of the Tongass National Forest on the land of the Lingit Aaní, a place that continually nourishes her writing. Her poetry has appeared various journals including Alaska Women Speak, Tidal Echoes, Pure Slush, and Blue Heron Review. She has also written four books on the human and natural history of the region.