Cynthia Alise Mock
the soul twister
gleaming
on the art
of acoustics
a dissonance
of your voice with sense
and abilities soul
brimming
drowns the pluck of your string
and the page it turns
as generations view or hear or scream your verse
soul twister gleaming
like a bulb
lay down your tune
lay down your tune
#2 Don't... Idolize the man: humanize the idol. When your subject has been glorified, reviled, accused, bruised and disabused as much as Zimmy has, there's no point in shining up that particular apple. Sure, he's the man who made "Time Out of Mind" and "Blood on the Tracks," but he also made "Self-Portrait" and that song at the end of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.
Glenn Cooper
In the old days in the Village
they said you wrote songs
on napkins, in the margins
of newspapers, on the backs
of beer coasters. Wherever
there was available space.
But mostly, I think, you just
wrote them in our blood, in
the hallowed ventricles
of our hearts, and it's there
they have always remained.
#3 Don't... Stalk him, for heaven's sake. The last thing we need is another serial killer shrine or jack-ass unauthorized biographer rooting through his garbage bins. Here's a link to a website where a very normal, balanced person has written him hundreds of letters. Hundreds.
#4 Do... Take that myth and work that thing like ain't been worked before. That's right, shake the legendary money-maker. The controversies, the girlfriends, the wives, the custodies, the motorcycle crash, going electric, going back acoustic again, going gospel, going back in time a hundred years: it's all baggage at this point. May as well take it somewhere tropical where they serve drinks with colorful umbrellas in them.
Woody Guthrie Visited by Bob Dylan: Brooklyn State Hospital, New York, 1961
David Wojahn
He has lain here for a terrible, motionless
Decade, and talks through a system of winks
And facial twitches. The nurse props a cigarette
Between his lips, wipes his forehead. She thinks
He wants to send the kid away, but decides
To let him in - he's waited hours.
Guitar case, jean jacket. A corduroy cap slides
Down his forehead. Doesn't talk. He can't be more
Than twenty. He straps on the harmonica holder,
Tunes up, and begins his "Song to Woody,"
Trying to sound three times his age, sandpaper
Dustbowl growl, the song interminable, inept. Should he
Sing another? The eyes roll their half-hearted yes.
The nurse grits her teeth, stubs out the cigarette.
HIDDEN BONUS TRACK!
#5 Do... Watch Todd Haynes' "I'm Not There" and just soak it all in. Let it wash over you, the images and sounds. Wait two weeks. Then write something.
This is hugely smart. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteYou're quite welcome, sir! Thanks for the comment. I'm very interested in your "POETRY, POETICS AND THE ARTS" blog, looks like some great information there. How do you like Wheaton?
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