(c) Geoffrey Wren
Heart, Felt You were full of answers about what happens to the heart, as though you’d spent a lifetime breaking the end off a question mark and using it to punctuate all the sad stories you would sing, or letting it fall on a roulette wheel that never bounced on the black. But can’t we at least agree on this: that the heart is led by nothing except itself, that it kept taking you by the hand and setting off to the heat of Hydra, to a home, giving you the permission you needed to put down your pen and pick up your guitar, to speak in a timbre so low you sounded like your heart was in your throat, yet never letting life happen to it, beating but never bystanding? The heart kept occurring to you, even when you tried to forget it those late nights in Montreal, or amid monastery meditations. Even if the heart was acted upon, it was you who felt what ensued time and again, you whose music allowed us perceive what transpired every time we listened, and listen to this day, limited by the distance between any artist and the audience that experiences the art. Who knows what really took place, what love you gained and lost. What happened is secondary to the song — so long as we feel close to the heart of it.
Bio: : Shane Schick is the founder of a customer experience design publication called 360 Magazine, His poetry has appeared in literary journals across the U.S., Canada, The U.K. and Africa. He lives in Toronto. More: shaneschick.com/poetry. Twitter: @shaneschick Subscribe to my 360 Magazine newsletter