The River of Life

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Rivers. Poems have been written about them and it seems as if every songwriter has written at least one song to rivers. There is something about the presence of water, the never-ending flow that inspires poets and composers alike. And more often than not, they compare the river to our lives, flowing inexorably downward, toward the sea, the water going through grassy valleys, rocky gorges, villages and cities alike. 
Below are a few examples, from others and from the poets themselves.
Píccola will abstain this month, as she has no idea what a river is and was not interested in entering the water the one time she saw the Eel River. 

​                                                                  Life’s River
 
The people stood on the bank of the river. One stepped gingerly into the water, wading until the ground gave way and he had to swim. Another dove into the middle of the stream and swam energetically downriver. Yet another waded in and turned onto her back to float wherever the current would lead her. 
One by one, they entered the water. A family made a small boat and launched it together. They took turns rowing. A larger group of people lashed together logs to fashion a raft. Together they pushed and pulled until the raft was afloat. Then they all climbed aboard and chose one man to pole them into the current. 
Swimmers, floaters, and boats moved downriver. Sometimes they hailed each other, other times they focussed on their own journey. Some cooperated, taking turns rowing, others just sat and watched the scenery. Swimmers stroked alone but some stopped to help other swimmers who were tired or needed help navigating an obstacle in the river. 
So it went, day after day. The river ran quickly down the mountain, then slowed through a meadow. Speeding up on a downhill slope, it hit a rocky patch and tumbled down the rocks, a waterfall. Boats were upended, swimmers battered, many found themselves swirling helplessly in an eddy. But they persevered, helped each other out of the eddy, and finally they were all back in the river’s current. 
The river entered a valley where it flowed smoothly and quietly. The people rested, they called back and forth to each other, they even sang. But then other small rivers joined their river and the waters were deeper. On stormy days, the water turned cold and wild. Still the people swam and rowed and poled. What else could they do? They had undertaken this journey and did not want to leave the river. 
The people grew tired. The journey had been long and hard. When would it end? They rested more and rowed and swam less as the river grew wider and more calm. The water was warmer now too.  The people could relax a bit. They let their boats drift or floated on their backs, as the river’s current inexorably carried them downstream.
Finally, the river widened into an estuary. Cold salt water waved up to meet them. It mixed with the river’s warmer, fresh water. Before them, the people saw a wide expanse of water, the all encompassing sea, where life began. And they were ready. They rowed and swam towards the vast ocean, ready to accept wherever the water would take them.
 And the river kept flowing from the mountain to the sea.
 
MW 3/22

                   Bill Staines:  River

I was born in the path of the winter wind,
I was raised where the mountains are old,
Where springtime waters came dancing down,
And I remember the tales they told.

The whistling ways of my younger days,
Too quickly have faded on by,
But all of their memories linger on,
Like the light in a fading sky.

River, take me along,
In your sunshine, sing me a song,
Ever moving and winding and free.
You rolling old river, you changing old river,
Let's you and me, river, run down to the sea.

I've been to the city and back again,
I've been moved by some things that I've learned,
Met a lot of good people and I've called them friends
Felt the change when the seasons turned.

I've heard all the songs that the children sing.
An I listened to love's melodies,
I've felt my own music within me rise,
Like the wind in the autumn trees.

River, take me along
In your sunshine, sing me a song,
Ever moving and winding and free,
You rolling old river, you changing old river,
Let's you and me, river, run down to the sea.

Someday when the flowers are blooming still,
Someday when the grass is still green,
My rolling waters will round the bend,
And flow into the open sea.

So, here's to the rainbow that's followed me here,
And here's to the friends that I know,
And here's to the song that's within me now,
I will sing it wherever I go.

River, take me along
In your sunshine, sing me a song
Ever moving and winding and free,
You rolling old river, you changing old river,
Let's you and me, river, run down to the sea,

​Epigrams by JM

In its flow from source to mouth, every river at any moment is everything it ever was.

Rivers don't go, they flow.

Rivers know no rest.

Earth's rivers are its arteries.

Gypsies and rivers are strange bedmates.

​Rivers are a gypsy's freeway. 

​

​
“SONG OF THE RIVER”
The snow melts on the mountain
And the water runs down to the spring,
And the spring in a turbulent fountain,
With a song of youth to sing,
Runs down to the riotous river,
And the river flows on to the sea,
And the water again
Goes back in rain
To the hills where it used to be.
And I wonder if Life’s deep mystery
Isn’t much like the rain and the snow
Returning through all eternity
To the places it used to know.
For life was born on the lofty heights
And flows in a laughing stream
To the river below
Whose onward flow
Ends in a peaceful dream.
And so at last,
When our life has passed
And the river has run its course,
It again goes back,
O’er the selfsame track,
To the mountain which was its source.
So why prize life
Or why fear death,
Or dread what is to be?
The river ran its allotted span
Till it reached the silent sea.
Then the water harked back to the mountaintop
To begin its course once more.
So we shall run the course begun
Till we reach the silent shore,
Then revisit earth in a pure rebirth
From the heart of the virgin snow.
So don’t ask why we live or die,
Or wither, or when we go,
Or wonder about the mysteries
That only God may know.

by William Randolph Hearst
SF Chronicle/Examiner

                      ​The River  by midi
                
 
The river knows no season, no emotion, just the endless cycle of birth and death. Listen for the whisper of life born anew and feel peace from the river flow.
 
 
Green sprouted through deep rich earth,
Mothers everywhere gave birth.
Peace was again at hand
And the river ran.
 
Children played wild and carefree
‘Neath the leafed-out apple tree,
Heedless of the treaty ban.
Still the river ran.
 
Drying leaves began to fall,
Geese flew south with mournful call.
Cold discord crept through the land.
Yet the river ran.
 
Came wan winter ice and snow,
Friend and brother were now foe.
Clashing armies took their stand.
And the river ran.
 
Human hearts now filled with dread,
Of hard days that lay ahead.
Harsh disease swept through the land.
But the river ran. 
 
And then a heedful few heard
A note of hope, a whispered word.
Rose bloomed in the dismal land,
And the river ran.
 
Butterflies unfurled their wing,
Mockingbirds began to sing,
Spring burst forth on the land
And the river ran. 

Hope sprang forth from fountainhead,
Fresh air breathed life from the dead.
We again walked hand in hand,
And still the river ran. 

The lyrics were revised for time of Covid but the war lyrics were already there and will always be relevant, unfortunately, in one part of the world or another. Midi did not have the time or equipment to revise the recording.