Who told you that you couldn't play?

Today's offering is a poem from Shay, aka Fireblossom, who graciously let me repost it here. It reminds me of what creativity was like before I knew there were standards by which I was supposed to judge the results.


Starling


Odd and sweet little creature that you are,

Who told you that you couldn't play?

Who dares to shush you, little spirit? It's criminal is what it is.

Nobody died and made them sheriff.



So bang away.

Even the vainest singers began by screeching for worms,

Bald and absurd,

Hardly birds at all, just bold little balls of noise;

But they knew, as you should too,

That there are only so many beats to a bar or to a heart,

And every one of them drips with the sacred.



Small and daring,

You have no idea how much I admire you.

Keys white and black are like stars in the night, and you can touch them all, even now,

Though you can hardly reach the peanut butter

Or the door knob.

Come, I'll share with you all that I have learned.

It is not much,

Only this:



Keep singing, and just as the days appear and then fade, over and over, year upon year,

Keep playing,

And damn the critics.

God will love you and you will love yourself,

As the cat does

And as I do,

Every time you start in with your irrepressible gorgeous noise.

---

Originally posted here.