Julie R. Neidlinger: Lone Prairie Blog

A mere stanza.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Bruce Springsteen: Matamoras Banks

(Each year many die crossing the deserts,
mountains and rivers of our southern border
in search of a better life. Here I follow the
journey backwards, from the body at the
river bottom, to the man walking across
the desert towards the banks of the Rio Grande.)

For two days the river keeps you down
Then you rise to the light without a sound
Past the playgrounds and empty switching yards
The turtles eat the skin from your eyes, so they lay open to the stars

Your clothes give way to the current and river stone
'Till every trace of who you ever were is gone
And the things of the earth they make their claim
That the things of heaven may do the same

Goodbye, my darling, for your love I give God thanks,
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros banks

Over rivers of stone and ancient ocean beds
I walk on sandals of twine and tire tread
My pockets full of dust, my mouth filled with cool stone
The pale moon opens the earth to its bones
I long, my darling, for your kiss, for your sweet love I give God thanks
The touch of your loving fingertips
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros banks

Your sweet memory comes on the evenin' wind
I sleep and dream of holding you in my arms again
The lights of Brownsville, across the river shine
A shout rings out and into the silty red river I dive
I long, my darling, for your kiss, for your sweet love I give God thanks
A touch of your loving fingertips
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros banks

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There's rhetoric to read about immigration, rhetoric for which there is no shortage. It's logical and backed with facts and found everywhere. It's conservative and liberal. All of it is an echo chamber. Two sides, hollering, throwing policy like darts. The audience gets restless.

This is not a post about immigration.

The managers, the lawyers, the business brokers, the scientists, the advertisers -- their power is borrowed, an illusion that can be shattered by a mere stanza or chord or snap of the shutter or swirl of blue paint.

A story, even one that is not real, is true and is power in the hands of a poet. I hate to see artists and musicians and writers be sold short, and to sell themselves short or for a price. There is value and power in what they are able to do.

Tell the story. Tell it in words, in pictures, in music. The audience is waiting. From that change comes.