So I am beginning in poetry, my spoken-sung litany with Dylan - as I listen to him; I write and read between the lines for specific songs. I feel we've had this dialogue for years anyway, he and I (which is really between "I and I") so why not make it official more than it is - which again is between the self and the self, for that is what Dylan does best, a reflection of the self allowing us to see deeper and then deeper, almost insisting on it. I am reflecting back to him; saying, Now you look here.... So here is one - this one is Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands. I'm gathering them all together for what I pray will be a good and solid collection, an excellent book I hope - but here is the beginning, or the first that I am sharing. I listened to the song while I wrote - you could listen to the song while you read or have it in the background.
Thanks for reading
I ate mercury as a child, and the cigarettes I smoked, oh!
There I am praying, an Anglican vesper chant
Pockets torn, the plasticine I bought you.
Silk are we to the other
Your eyes see what in mine, prophet?
You of the warehouse eyes – You and your Arabian drums…
The sheets are all charged static, ionosphere
The air is metallic tasting – your wild mercury
The sound I so love:
And one more time, please
Silhouettes of me, my ballet communication: echo & location.
“Would you walk the length of my back,” you asked.
Yes, gentle as your geisha…. Yes I would,” I said..
We at the gate, the leaning post, West Corridor
That is me in a ruby red dress, waist cinched
Another color, another era
And that is you, holding a shotgun and at your feet, a box of bullets, mister
That is me in the cowboy hat, chin-tied and proud – a little silly.
That is me in the cap, a little proud, a little haughty you say.
Should I leave, you want to know
Should I wait.
Should I stay or should I go know now
all Clash and Clash and Clash
Sure, why don’t you wait…
The sea at my feet, your winter shell, kosher Christmas unkosher
Such are the shattered vessels
Bright are the sparks, still -
Something is not right: you are not here.
Nag Hammadi you
Light and electric blue
You are to me divination, ordination
With you, my face like glass
Glowing and glistening incandescent
Saint like, with a soul like a ghost, you tell me
And whose is not, I ask you.
No man will come here, you say.
So wait and wait and wait, this is you speaking…
So full of awe and yet you question question question
So beautiful and lilting, but where is your action, your next move
Are you not a prophet or are you and do I trust –
that is, speaking strictly prophet to prophet.
You speak of you and you and you
I can tell you of what I see
But not of you; no never; such is not me.
Yet the love in your voice – oh!
And the ache and the drag of it – and the longing and the wanting.
How long have you wanted? How long have you longed?
And how much longer can such beauty stand that….
Just like that… an ellipsis without resolution,
Interruption, beginning, or end…