Wilco: One Sunday Morning Ekphrasic

ekphrasic: art created/inspired by other art

For my creative writing for the musician class, we listened to Wilco’s “One Sunday Morning” and wrote what came into our mind, or rather, what the song inspired us to write. This was the process of making an ekphrasic, which I actually did before with my Mozart poem story (click here to read a story about princesses, knights, and operatic love). “One Sunday Morning” was different, thought, because it had words and was a different genre.

I was really happy to write this. I hadn’t written creatively in a while before, so this was the perfect opportunity for me. And I found that I loved it. I love music, I love writing, so why not? I used to think it cheap to take from another art to create a new art, but it isn’t. It’s like jumpstarting my creative juices, by seeing or hearing what someone else did.

Without further ado, here’s the ekphrasic along with a link of the song.

Expansive sky fills my lungs/milky sweet/dripping down

pure sugar, dotted with clouds of cotton candy


Lulling, almost

but not fully asleep

Because something is still pulsating in there,

a stubborn rhythm, perhaps

a drive to sing


Water clean eyes

Freshly washed face, clean and clear

like the river dancing over the rocks

reflecting your eyes


Tumbling over and over

Clear, pure, childlike

-you can almost hear laughing

with each stone it runs over,

never tripping


Birds unfurl their wings,

cautiously at first

then embrace the sky, the air

that holds on like a long lost friend/Or lover


Then all things are simple

And all things are beautiful again


And each day expands in the same way

a flower opens its petals: gently, cautiously

but ultimately, pristine


Maybe in all this beauty, thereโ€™s something amiss

something askew? Because thereโ€™s changes,

ever so slightly

dotting the horizon


Weaving, bobbing back and forth on uncertain steps

over diamond shells


Back and forth

as jewels pour freely, now

vibrating and resonating finally back into

golden perfection

as the sun rises again,

creasing folds and beckoning the song to rise again,

the drive to live,

the drive to sing

the drive to be


and that is all that is left/This pulsating/like a beating heart

the color of rubies




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