Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Last February, darling Sandra surprised me with a full-size print of the Andrew Wyeth painting titled Groundhog's Day (reproduced above)--framed now and hanging nearby as I write. But the print also revived my on-going interest in the Wyeth family of painters; and it somehow collided with a poem fragment of mine from decades ago, and a familiar passage from Shakespeare, to compel this new poem (given visual support by others of Andy's works):
I name this place:
Home. This is the table...
would seat eight if there
were. And here is the chair--
purely a chair--while
over there, the chairs are
unseen, but chairs still.
Now the lace curtains
ripple out... and in...
blowing out and then
across the window sill
again. Do you see where
it leads? The need remains,
always, to name some
tame place Home. The rebel
poem pretends to know
all that it may be about:
how she carried Home
in her eyes... her face.
And ends the poem, so.
* * *
What comes next? None can say...
Y'all come back soon, y'heah?
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Meanwhile--per spatial definition, if not exacting temporal terminology--in another part of the city, somewhere between the rocky valley of downtown commerce, and higher education climes where colleges rule... between the high culture of historic Edinburgh, and low comedy of the anarchic Fringe... between high hopes of an upper-crust caste tucked safe high in the Castle, and low
For in the end, but before it all, you surely are between a rock and a hard place--between the high seat of learning, looking, and listening, the top-of-the-rock, plein-air parkland called “Arthur’s Seat”--and the stony-eyed, hard-hearted, less-than-Festive ticket-mongers, before whom you can spend many a futile hour trying to upgrade your seats!
“It seems hopeless, but let’s try this anyway,” the young woman said to me. Then, while I read brochures and walked around whistling tunelessly, she spent a solid half hour calling ‘round, talking to other ticket folk, and finally tracking down the single unclaimed will-call ticket--which got me a seat at the concert that now occupies the fifth spot on my list of
5) If you think of the spectrum of Scots folk music as a balance scale registering opposing weights, rugged Dick Gaughan would hold down the fiery, straining-for-independence, always political tray, while jaunty Jean Redpath--beloved, exalted, equally serious--would rise higher and higher on-board the gleaming silver tray inscribed with her name. Dick would make do with his guitar and commanding voice, while Jean’s pure vocals, mellow, often acapella, always musical, would skip lightly and blithely about, dance playfully around each mesmer’ed listener, and then be wafted
6) I was going through changes then--nearing 40 with divorce pending, learning la vida bachelor while maintaining the house and maturing kids, restless in a waning ad-producer job, traveling for fun at first but then as prelude to a planned two-year, ‘round-the-world escape. I’d also decided that a solo adult needed to know
(About six years ago, the BBC discovered archived tapes of that legendary Seventh; some engineers had been testing new gear on location and serendipitously had captured the entire performance... but promptly filed it away with other "test
7) English folk-rock, from trad. sources at least, began about 1966 with the advent of Fairport Convention and then Steeleye Span. The premier guitarist and songwriter to emerge from that scene was Richard Thompson--four decades later
So enough with the Leim-blather. It’s ta’en us an intolerable unconscionable length of time and pace to get here where the song at last will be sung. No more adjectival jivin’ from me; on with the concert instead. I’ve
Please just follow the links one at a time, in the order suggested. (You can shape your own hits-list later.)
Here is the first. (Strum that Martin!)
Here the second. (Sound the Tabor!)
the third. (Bless Edinburgh’s Festive best.}
Here is the last. (Doom and Gloom and Beauty still.)
(As encores let me suggest Martin's astonishing reinvention of newly minted classic "Killing the Blues," then June with England's Oyster Band, adrift off "Finisterre," dreaming of an ending.)