The Blues Man
Derek Hugen, 9-3-04
Robert Johnson,
Carl Sandburg soul,
Old man. Robert Johnson,
How your young fleshly lies have
Beat your brow, and wimmen's eyes,
How they have soaked into your mind
With the tense lights of
Broken mornings green.
A Blues Man plays his ancient tunes
Into forgotten ears of barflies in Dove's Wing Cafe,
On the continent of a whiskey drink.
And
The defective, ancient potter fixes his clay.
His pots molded, cracked
In misuse,
Melodies
Of strange fissions
Of darker shades of blue.
Vicious dabbings of Elmers' glue
Clamping bits of broken cups with
Quick fingers, the potter is attentive and able
In his pressures. Two smooth sides of the
Length of knife strike notes on the clay cup
Like Blues Men hitting beats, rhythms,
Healing, making all things new,
All things
Hardened like plaster,
All things cracked
With blood.
Old souls will gather here,
Suffering slow.
They will come to the crossroads,
Make deals in their pain.
Come, Robert Johnson.
Come, Lightnin' Hopkins,
Come Mississippi Hurt.
Come, you Blues Men all to the crossroads.
Come, you ancient potters to the throne. |
