I can’t seem to shake it, get it out of my head or let it go. I did not know this man except through his music. I did not know anything beyond the face he gave his fans. He told the stories of his life through music and, the more I listen to Blackstar, the more broken my heart feels. This was his goodbye, his assurance that his legacy would end on a high note. I’m listening to it, watching the videos (so very Bowie-esque), and reading the lyrics. It’s not a matter of trying to make sense of it – I’ve no need of that. This grief comes in little waves, not overwhelming floods like I’m accustomed to. I think the persona of Bowie would approve of little lasting waves that have the strange side effect of also inspiring me to reopen that part of my writing that I’ve not touched in years.
I cannot remember the last time I wrote a poem down on paper but in my head there are couplets and snippets spinning again. When these thoughts have a little more form than just the rhythm of the words or the way they feel in my head, I’ll put them down and maybe even do something constructive with them. I’ve always had pretty good luck finding good markets for my poetry.