The lines were from revivalist archives, old and
dusty – still alive with pungency, no less effective
than the day the writer wrote them first, hummed
a haunting tune, tapped a jaunty rhythm.
I listened to the band, retreated to the olden times
enshrined within the tune – the potent years, the pain;
I heard the words my forebears heard, felt the panoply
of shame expressed in latent, living energy.
I asked the man to play some more; he smiled,
shook his head, denied my need for populist
encores to feed the hungry crowd; yeah, he said
amazed, that old shit (still) jerks some tears for sure.
© 20 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
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