Revenant in Texarkana

(For John Fahey)

 

You could be sour and demanding,

impossible, rude, spiteful,

childlike sometimes,

childish othertimes,

and you pawned your guitars for a

cheap room or another beer so we

couldn’t hear you play those

rolling blues-ragas,

dry like the prairies, leavened only

by the rain of real emotion learned

from being childish, childlike,

an American Primitive in

a forgotten America.

 

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Comments

  • Linda Munn  On April 1, 2011 at 11:19 pm

    The first time I read this I couldn’t make sense of it. That’s my problem I have a eye/brain disconnect every now and then. It’s frustrating. The second and third time I read it I saw the sadness of the artist and the audience. Well done.

  • Jeffrey J. Marks  On April 4, 2011 at 10:45 pm

    I like this one very much. The poem makes me think the artist is dead, but the title implies a rebirth. Perhaps the man lives but the art does not. Maybe he is no longer childish in that he has forsaken his art for a steady job?

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