Already Elsewhere

From whiskey river’s commonplace book:

Echoing Light

When I was beginning to read I imagined
that bridges had something to do with birds
and with what seemed to be cages but I knew
that they were not cages it must have been autumn
with the dusty light flashing from the streetcar wires
and those orange places on fire in the pictures
and now indeed it is autumn the clear
days not far from the sea with a small wind nosing
over dry grass that yesterday was green
the empty corn standing trembling and a down
of ghost flowers veiling the ignored fields
and everywhere the colors I cannot take
my eyes from all of them red even the wide streams
red it is the season of migrants
flying at night feeling the turning earth
beneath them and I woke in the city hearing
the call notes of the plover then again and
again before I slept and here far downriver
flocking together echoing close to the shore
the longest bridges have opened their slender wings

(W. S. Merwin [source])

…and:

After yesterday’s storm I had expected to find the landscape a desert of sodden heathery bogs and swollen reedy lochans; and so it mostly was, but over all its vast extent the light was so radiant that I felt I could see not just for great distances but into time itself. The ruins of crofts, a mile away, seemed so close in that enchanted air that I saw not only the nettles of ragwort round the doors, but the people coming out for the last time: I could even see the grief on their faces. No wonder, I thought, this was the land of second sight. If I stayed here I would be a seer as well as a poet.

((John) Robin Jenkins, Fergus Lamont)

From elsewhere:

Where We Are

Fog in the morning here
will make some of the world far away
and the near only a hint.
But rain
will feel its blind progress along the valley,
tapping to convert one boulder at a time
into a glistening fact. Daylight will love what came.
Whatever fits will be welcome, whatever
steps back in the fog will disappear
and hardly exist. You hear the river
saying a prayer for all that’s gone.

Far over the valley there is an island
for everything left; and our own island
will drift there too, unless we hold on,
unless we tap like this: “Friend,
are you there? Will you touch when
you pass, like the rain?”

(William Stafford)

…and:

Everyone Was in Love

One day, when they were little, Maud and Fergus
appeared in the doorway, naked and mirthful,
with a dozen long garter snakes draped over
each of them like brand-new clothes.
Snake tails dangled down their backs,
and snake foreparts in various lengths
fell over their fronts, heads raised
and swaying, alert as cobras.
They writhed their dry skins
upon each other, as snakes like doing
in lovemaking, with the added novelty
of caressing soft, smooth, moist human skin.
Maud and Fergus were deliciously pleased with themselves.
The snakes seemed to be tickled too.
We were enchanted. Everyone was in love.
Then Maud drew down off Fergus’s shoulder,
as off a tie rack, a peculiarly
lumpy snake and told me to look inside.
Inside that double-hinged jaw, a frog’s green
webbed hind feet were being drawn,
like a diver’s, very slowly as if into deepest waters.
Perhaps thinking I might be considering rescue,
Maud said, “Don’t. Frog is already elsewhere.”

(Galway Kinnell [source])

Like Ralph McTell, who put in an appearance in last week’s “whiskey river Friday” post, Maria Muldaur has been kicking around a good while. Not only was she an integral part of the early-1960s Greenwich Village folk music scene, she was actually born in the Village. When she first stepped into public awareness, it was as a vocalist and guitar player for a couple of jug bands of the era, and her music these days hearkens back to those roots and others, particularly classic blues.

For her 25th album, 2001’s Richland Woman Blues, she led off with the title song — a version of Mississippi John Hurt‘s “Richland Woman Blues” with a lilting rhythm, slightly modified lyrics, and more than a suggestion of hanky-panky (though less of a suggestion than in the original). It’s not hard to imagine accompanists on barrelhouse piano and jug in the background.

[Below, click Play button to begin. While audio is playing, volume control appears at left — a row of little vertical bars. This clip is 4:32 long.]

The lyrics below are accurate for Muldaur’s performance, I think; I couldn’t find this version anywhere online, so transcribed them myself. (Yeah, haha, I’m thinking the same thing: ?!?) Please let me know if anything seems “off” and I’ll make the correction.

Lyrics:

Richland Woman Blues
(words/music by Mississippi John Hurt, adapted and performed by Maria Muldaur)

Gimme red lipstick and a bright red rouge
A shingle bob haircut* and a shot of good booze
Hurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
If you wait too long, your mama will be gone

Hurry down to the dress shop, get the one looks best
Your own pretty mama, she wants a brand-new dress
Hurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
If you wait too long, mama will be gone

[break]

With rosy red garters, pink hose on my feet
My turkey-red bloomers, they got a rumble seat
Hurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
If you wait too long, your mama will be gone

Red rooster said, “Cockle-doodle-do-do”
Richland woman she said, “Any dude’ll do”**
Hurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
If you wait too long, sweet mama will be gone

[break]

Every Sunday mornin’, church watch me go
My wings’ve sprouted out, the preacher told me so
Hurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
If you wait too long, your mama will be gone

Come along young man, everything settin’ right
My husband’s goin’ away till next Saturday night
Hurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
If you wait too long, your mama will be gone

__________________________

* “Shingle bob haircut”: I’d never heard this term before. It was a style popularized in the mid-1920s: “boyish,” tapering into a V at the back of the neck with waves or curls at the sides. When I read that Louise Brooks (right) had worn a modified shingle bob, I could picture the general look of it at once. Says one site: “According to a 1925 article published in a New York City paper, ‘Some devotees of the hair-bobbed fashion are complaining of “shingle headaches.” The  medical profession believes this is nothing  but a form of neuralgia caused by the sudden removal of hair from the tender nape of the neck, thus exposing it to the blustery winds.'” (Bluster had apparently made its way into “the medical profession” around then, too.)

** That couplet — both the rhyme and the meaning — makes me grin every time I hear it.

Note: The image at the top of this post comes from a project by SAMALdesign (DzmitrySamal), called the “Parallel World Collection.” Apparently these are functional shelves and lamps, held in place with wall anchors. For more views of the collection, see this page at the SAMALdesign site.