SILVER
“It's not the icy bike chain rain of
Portland, Oregon”
I've been wanting to say something
about this line (from All My Happiness is Gone, by Purple Mountains)
for a couple of months now.
To talk about how it stopped me in my
tracks the first time I heard it.
How I needed to go back to the
beginning of the verse three straight times in quick succession so it
could hit me in something resembling the same way, before the power
of the poetry ossified into a more basic form, probably admiration...
I wanted to talk about how David Berman
drawls out the word Or-uh-gonnn so it sounds as abstract, sad, and
beautiful as an icy bike chain rain.
I wanted to note how the line sounds
like a damp collection of consonants and vowels spinning around in a
clothes dryer, and how I want to pull them out when they're dry and
warm and press them against my face and shut my eyes and just
breathe.
Now David Berman is gone, and what I
meant to be a celebration risks coming across like an elegy.
But this is not an elegy; this is a
celebration.
“It's not the icy bike chain rain of
Portland, Oregon”