Introduction to Like A Bird Knows To Sing

And two poems from the collection by Judson Stacy Vereen

Introduction by the Author

My first book of collected poems, 62 Poems from Judson Vereen, was more of an experiment than anything—in that I had never written or put together any type of writing and then had the gall to insert it in between the covers of a so-called book. Where many writers (especially poets) would slightly cringe at their first attempt at a collection of poems of juvenilia—I never flinched. Reading over the potential 100 poems that I would dwindle down to 62, I found nothing in it that felt embarrassing, but felt rather more like an artifact or, let's say, a stone, that is, a stepping stone from which will be built larger, more in depth collections of poetry, essays, sketches, stories etc.

I then attempted a second book, Through San Francisco, DARKLY, which included poems, stories, and the majority of my song lyrics, that at that time I had written and sung for the guitar and piano. This would have been about 2014, and I had also embarked on another dark journey, my first novel, American Pleasure, documenting my time spent substance ridden and linked to a disastrous nymphomaniac. Through San Francisco, DARKLY—almost a decade later—is still not finished. 62 has been translated to Portuguese, done so by my wife, which is a source of pride, I must admit.

Anyway, Like a Bird Knows to Sing is one of these compendiums where there is no theme, except, perhaps, time. I believe it was soon after my arrival in Brasil, where I was to meet in person for the very first time the woman who I knew I would marry (we held an extensive correspondence during COVID19, and I, destitute and fed up with America, simply packed up and left).
Soon enough, after we found and made ourselves a home, I lugged an old Olivetti typewriter to the outside area of our home and began pecking away at what would become this collection. Like all of my work, I wish for it to stand alone, rendering a long introduction completely unnecessary. Too, there is the need to stir something up inside myself and readers, to give some context—few as my readers are, far in between as they might come.

It may be noteworthy that these poems were written deep in the country and in the outdoors. If anything, they represent a type of rumination, and the celebration of life with a kind of spirited jubilance that was previously only foreign to me. It is certainly due to my roaming and turbulent spirit that my previous work is full of a kind of vulgar gusto, a violent type of coexistence with the urban environments that I have sullied and been sullied by—and is also what led me here to Brasil—my willingness, or perhaps even eagerness, to push myself outside what is known to me and the country where I was born—a country where I was slowly descending into turmoil and despair.

But it is equally true that much credit goes to my wife, whose correspondence, no joke, probably saved my life, and at the very least alerted me to the dire nature of my decrepit surroundings and to the depth of my very own emptiness.
It is for that reason that I dedicate this book to her and the state in which we now live. A state as expansive and bewildering as my very own heart, which will forever be hers. So, this book is for her, and she is on its cover.

Judson Stacy Vereen
São Lourenço, MG, Brasil
January, 2023

#4
As a young man I said I shall live as wild as I can and in the
freedom of the boy—awaits the prison that is man.
But in the culture jailhouse,
I shall not grow old!

But the pillow is soaked in sweat,
And the ground is cold!
And the bread is wet,
And the jailer is the state,
They won’t dare set me free
(I know I can’t complain to them)
For their hands are the hands that feed

I saw an old enemy of mine,
He became a millionaire,
He advised me on my finances
But had none to spare
I spend more money than he does,
So why would I bother?
And anyways, he’s a fat cat banker
(And, of course, so was his father)

He was born at the top
(They just move other’s money down)
They scrape the cream off the crop.
(When nobody’s around)

And truthfully, I have tried to justify my existence
But I am no stranger to excuses,
The walls built on brick resistance,
They insist this,
You’ve made literature your business,
go to work every day,
But a working man is considered lazy,
When his work has no pay

And you’ve got a moon rock in your eye,
I feel its cool surface upon my face
In the surface of its façade,
I find the closest thing to grace

In the far corner of the universe,
The gods play pool while holding court
They watch upon us as jailers,
Spectators of the blood sport,

For evidence in the trial of life
enter innocence into the docket,
innocent, with the fiber of life,
Lining guilty, empty pockets.

---

#6
Dare you, child,
brace the rhythms of your own,
your life has a counterbalance, here it sing.
Dance up to your pearly throne,
trod downward with your silver wings

Silly things like money,
often despair do make
often goes unknown
often giving things do take

Often grief flies alone.

Alone in solitude
Solitude—poetry does make
isolation does not feign
for gifts made in solitude
are never gifts in vain

Take a glass from the cupboard
and fill it neatly with port
and let the keys fly
dancing in the rhythm is a sport

and done until you die.

---

Judson Vereen is the author of Like A Bird Knows To Sing, his second collection of poetry. For more information, please visit Judsonvereen.com/written