ALL ABOUT THE BLUES

 

It's all about the blues, you remind me,

smiling, nodding in affirmation -- dry, chalky blue

of the sky brushing itself one way, then another,

unfathomable cobalt of the great lake churning below,

haint blue of my mother's Appalachian home,

undiluted sininen of the old country,

midnight rising like a bruise beneath the snow.

How many have come to greet us today,

come to call us back to the pulse and hum of this

indelible world, this never-too-familiar world,

this world of unfolding luxury, fear, and surprise?

You say there is a horizon here some days,

and sometimes we must make our own.

You say the colors we love most are the ones

we can never know by name, would not want to know,

colors that no amount of mixing could create.

Not until later, when you have painted this

landscape and placed it in my hands, its colors

still wet and shimmering -- reaching for one another,

as all things will -- do they begin to reveal

themselves, becoming at once a place I could

walk into, land or no land, sky or no sky,

a place in which I could easily drown.

BLUES FOR ROBERT BLY AND HONEYBOY EDWARDS

 

Robert Bly and Honeyboy Edwards would have

understood each other well, I think.

When I saw Honeyboy, already in his 90s

by then, small and sinewy, the bones of his face

shining through, his skin polished to

an elegant sheen that only comes with age,

he was playing to a small lecture hall

at the university, and when called back

for an encore, proceeded to play the same tune

he had played two songs in. He must have

known hundreds of songs by then, dating back

to the beginning of this American century,

but he wanted us, for whatever reason, to hear

that one again -- or he was simply playing it

for his own amusement, the particular joy and beauty

of doing whatever you damn well please,

another gift granted only to those who endure.

It reminded me of Bly, reading the same line

of poetry over again, pausing, gazing up

to see if it had resonated with those in attendance.

This, too, is the blues after all -- repeating

the refrain one has just sung, letting it linger,

roll off the tongue once more, in no hurry

for the resolution that may or may not come.

There is no end to this kind of song.

When a great singer says, "Take it from the top,"

what they mean is, "Go back all the way."