Harry Belafonte Concert

Melbourne, Australia, 1960 

He did have a voice like honey.

His songs were lilting and new –

here in Australia, we’d never heard 

the quick, light dance of Calypso, 

until he hit the Hit Parade.

We loved that voice, that sound;

we loved his songs, that’s true. 

But that was not the only reason

my Aunty Ev (who I lived with then, 

when I was a uni student) bought tickets.

We weren’t groupies. It was a more

innocent time. (I think it was 

before there were groupies.)

We didn’t aspire to rip his pants off.

We just liked how he looked, in them.

Shy teenager, middle-aged wife,

the two of us out on the town –

age irrelevant, girls together –

we shared that perfect evening

 in the stalls, up close to the stage.

Brown, tall, muscular but lean,

smiling like a burst of Jamaican sun

(that cold August night in Melbourne)

he wore slim black pants and a white shirt 

open in a V to show his chest. We gasped

as the curtain went up and there he was.

He flung his arms up wide in greeting, 

and began. Every song was a caress, 

or else it was shared laughter. Clichés

came true: we were in the palm of his hand.

I don’t mean only us, my aunt and me. 

It was the whole audience! (I didn’t think,

then, to check, but I’d guess mostly women.)

At interval, wide-eyed, we caught our breath;

agreed we’d never seen a handsomer man.

Yes it was also the voice, yes it was also 

the way he sang. The lyrical, husky voice, 

the emotional songs. He made us laugh,

he made us cry. He made us yearn –

and fall, as if forever, in love with love.

With him too, yes, but more than that.

Also with all the people and places 

he sang to us of. Could the night 

get any better? Yes! After the interval

he came on wearing a red shirt. Pow!

NaPoWriMo 29025, Day Twenty-Five:

Today we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts an experience of your own in hearing live music, and tells how it moves you. 

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United, for Friday Writings #181: Music for the Muse.