The Blues Defined (04/02/05)
A Poem From the Vault
This poem was written as an assignment for a course, but I don’t recall the specifics. In those days I was obsessed with blues and folk music, spoken word and beat poetry. It was a heap of Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie and Lead Belly and Mississippi John Hurt and Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac — lots of very obvious, familiar names and some that weren’t so familiar like Dick Justice, Blind Willie McTell, and Nick Drake. I can see a lot of these people in my work from back then, but none so much as Dylan — specifically the Dylan who was influenced by Guthrie.
Anyway, I don’t know if I’d still define “the blues” as a string of minor, mundane inconveniences, but it seems like anything more would mutate from “having the blues” into something more medically diagnosed or devastatingly tragic. So I’ll let it sit, and you can decide for yourself if the poem fits the bill.
The Blues Defined
04/02/2005
When you wake up in the morning from two hours’ sleep
and you can’t go back to bed and you just want to weep
’cause the cool morning air is freezing your feet
and you feel broken down and busted and beat.
When the wind from the sea blows into town
and you’re lookin’ for friends but no one’s around
and your own heart pumping’s the only damn sound
and yourself is the only person you’ve found.
When your car breaks down on the side of the road
and you’re walkin’ to a station through grass left un-mowed
and you can’t call nobody with that roaming cell phone
but you can’t be gone long ’cause the car will get towed.
It’s the pound of adrenaline when you’re left in the dark,
or the sudden rush you get when you hear a dog bark,
or the realization of a God-shaped hole in your heart,
or the anger you feel when you forgot where you parked.
It’s a restless night despite being tired,
and your eyes are wide open and your brain is just wired,
and you dream of all the kingdoms that you could sire
if you succumbed to the world and became a damned liar.
When you’re digging in your closet at 4 AM
and you find some old clothes that you used to fit in,
and you know for a fact you won’t ever be that young again,
wondering,
“Where did my innocence end?
When did I begin to sin?
Where do the rules break, and where do they bend?”
It’s the graceful acceptance of the passage of time,
when all of God’s nature just melts into rhyme,
and the cheerful admittance that older is fine,
and you don’t really mind moving on down the line.
It’s sitting alone after your girlfriend admits
she don’t know why she’s with you,
so you call it quits,
and you spend your time wonderin’,
“Whose lips did I kiss?
Whose body did I caress?
Whose eyelids did I watch with my hand on her hip
while sharing a bed in unfounded bliss?”
It’s ignoring the weather and staying warm inside,
even when your heart’s thumping and your insides are fried,
but you just keep on goin’,
and you come out alive,
lookin’ for something else to survive.
That’s the blues.