Wednesday March 5, 2008
As the world wakes, grass turns green and trees think about making leaves, my brain seems to be stirring, too. Poetry particles whizz around me like a cloud of sleepy bees. And the dreams!
You’d not believe the dreams. All gooey and complicated, violent and scary, formless, shapeless, incapable of resolution, rather like the noises an old valve radio sometimes made as it warmed up.
It’s a lonesome path sometimes, being a poet. In the winter I look out at grey, cold skies and wonder if I’ll ever find the words again. Come Spring, they generally pop up alongside the sunshine. Sometimes they don’t, and that’s when the path gets to be truly lonely.
Yesterday I was fooling with old Delta blues records, following my mood. Mississippi John Hurt knew about that lonesome path:
The tantalizing glimpse of Rev. Gary Davis at the end of this clip set me off on another search… hey ho… that’s YouTube for you!