# Lucille, Blind Son, Deep Blues, and an Empty Tobacco Can



## RC James (Feb 11, 2018)

[FONT=&Verdana]
​[/FONT]
        Tallulah, Louisiana,[FONT=&Verdana]endless fields
with baby- 
elephant-ear
tobacco leaves,
hanging shreds
of cotton
and tangerines.

I knock
on a paint-peeled door;
shuffling, rustlings inside
the shotgun shack.
A white-haired man,
pipe, dark glasses,
cracks open the door.

_Sorry to bother you,
they tol’ me
further down
you’re a guitar player
tol’ me
you make the box talk.
I got one here,
you wanna 
give it a workout?_

*What you drinkin?*

_What’s your pleasure?_

*I won’t say no to gin.*

_Done.
I’ll be right back._

………………………………

Lucille’s laying out 
on the rumpled bed,
reed-thin,
in a thin flower-print,
blue and white dress,
face down, still.
Blind Son 
holds my Martin,
tunes to open,
takes a Prince Albert can
off a shelf,
slides it up and down
the strings.
They whine and cry.

*Shor do lahk this gitar.*

He speaks gently 
to Lucille, wakes her
from half-sleep,
asks her to sing. 

*One ‘a tha ol’ ones. *

She rolls over 
on her back
and in barely audible voice
born in honky-tonks 
and roadhouses, 
she sets time dancing 
in booze delirium .

Soft tones
jazzed into spaces 
between pain 
and wonder,
joy and betrayal, 
floating memories
of dance halls 
and protective, 
mean,
boyfriends.

Lying there, 
she introduces me
to a blues-land cyclone
people carry all week,
released every Saturday night
from dusk to daylight;
doin’ tha Cakewalk, 
tha Shimmy, Swingout, 
tha Buzzard Lope.
Slingin’ barbecue, 
gamblers’ cards 
on the table,
whiskey and homebrew 
flowin.’

She sings time 
into enduring, 
generous strokes
of celebration,
joy borne out of
brutal history.
Her ancestors move 
ghostly limbs 
in languorous gestures 
of survival.

I’m quiet
as she turns back over.
I’ve lost words
for what I’ve heard.

I summon up:

_Lucille, I hope
you’re feelin’ better
soon._

“Better awready, son”

I leave the guitar behind.​[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]


[/FONT]


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## Firemajic (Feb 11, 2018)

Epic.... yeah... that's the word... this is an epic story, told with epic skill... the imagery is... well... epic... gritty, ugly, beautiful, poignant... real... like a novel, condensed into an epic poem. I hear a standing ovation... Bravo!


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## RC James (Feb 12, 2018)

Thank you majic - It was actually pretty easy 'cause it all happened - one of my greatest memories.  I went on to Austin and looked around for another guitar to give to Blind Son, and three months into the search I found an F-Hole Harmony in a Mexican bar - paid 25 bucks for it and brought it back to Talullah.  I gave it to Blind Son and his face dropped slightly after one strum - "Yah, it's OK - but not as nice as that one."  That Martin was later stolen by a junkie in Manhattan. So it goes - glad you got a kick out of this.  Best - RC


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## TuesdayEve (Feb 17, 2018)

Man, that thing just flows...
 I couldn’t get enough of it


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## RC James (Feb 17, 2018)

Well, TE - there is more - do believe me - Ha!  - Thank you for the good words - RC


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## ArianSpirit (Feb 17, 2018)

An amazing read the flow as stated from others kept my attention as I'm not one for longer works unless I'm truly pulled in!

Reminds me when I was in Memphis. BB King named his guitar Lucille so that is what I thought of when reading this as well as the musical aspect you have portrayed. I can't play anything but I have very talented family members that have many Martins. I think of Ray Charles and so many other greats! Even movies come to mind. 

This piece makes me think of so many things not mentioned above.

Truly enjoyed this!

~A


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## RC James (Feb 17, 2018)

Wow - I guess you're the person I wrote this for - every word is true - one of the most 
powerful exoeriences in my life - I guess I was in my mid-thirties at the time.

"...many Martins..."  - that one of mine got stolen by a junkie in NYC - sweet one too - 

Thank you for the kind words - I recorded this - but don't know if audio is allowed
in this forum.  - RC


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## sas (Feb 18, 2018)

Yesterday, I nominated this work for Poem of the Month. Hope you win. It is exceptional.


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## RC James (Feb 18, 2018)

sas - That's quite a gesture - I thank you - RC


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## sas (Feb 18, 2018)

RC James said:


> sas - That's quite a gesture - I thank you - RC



As you know, I'm not known to give unwarranted applause. In fact, there are many poets here I do not workshop because I rarely start out or end, with the proverbial ass kiss. I am task oriented. Smiles.  Your nomination was well deserved. Too many pump out a poem a day for workshop. They think a poetic thought makes it a poem. You, obviously, put much effort in this work.  Applause with a real ass kiss.


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## RC James (Feb 18, 2018)

sas - I accept your acknowledgement of the poem as a nod from one "working" poet to another - That once in a while one of us strikes some kind of pay-dirt should be recognized, and the ones (poems or stories or songs) that don't come up to the mark of excellence are "learners" - that a valid and acceptable criticism of them is what schools us into writing the winners, the "exceptional" works.  I've got to say I've been on the "killing floor" of heavy poetry board criticism for a number of years and the discouraging times, the sometimes overly harsh and/or dismissive actions on the part of some critters, has, in the beginning, dismayed and discouraged my efforts at writing relevant, coherent, cohesive and sensitive poetry.  I've learned to weather the bad stuff, due, in no little way, to the kind of recognition you've shown this poem that is about as close to what I'm going to call a reflection of my self and my efforts to be heard and understood as a contributer to advancing an understanding and a method of, not only surviving, but of being a member of an informed community that can make a difference combating the confusion, turmoil, and misrepresentations rife in our world at present. Wheww - did I just say that?  Well, as grandiloquent as it might sound - I mean it - Writers, to me, can be warriors and their weapon is truth.  As you say, there are serious writers and those in it it for the flash - whatever - not for the higher purpose of sowing understanding and respect for anyone, everyone, on the planet.  Which is not to say every poem, every literary effor, has to be a dead serious political/social/cultural work - light, even fluffy stuff, a playful venture into absurdity runs right alongside the serious stuff because it represents the versatility and inventiveness of the writer's mind.  OK - I hear the Internet Police in the hallway - gotto close  

I'lllljjjsuufgeuruityohklvmdbniyoqyuewrqpfuerihg'.......................................................................zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap  RC


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## SilverMoon (Feb 19, 2018)

Jack, can see Kerouac slapp’n you on the back, Ginsberg Howling….hang’n at the White Horse Café in the West Village where I had my share of time and wine, back when.

RC -Outstanding narrative beat poem. You’ve got the mechanics down. Diverse combination of internal/slant rhyme, meter, assonance, distinctive imagery, play-on dialect -all of which I cannot help but point to:
_______________________________________________________________________________

Christmas-day,
Tallulah, Louisiana;…..sheer music, this assonance.(more regarding bellow)
I walk through
frosty fields,
sprawling boundless
with baby elephant-ear….  staggering imagery


[tobacco leaves,.. a hound for slants! fitting placements.
picked-over cotton
and tangerines,
to a shambled row
of pickers’
shotgun houses.
I knock
on a paint-slivered door,
and hear shuffling,
rustling, inside.]… more of the staggering, not overwhelming your narrative.


[A short,
white-haired man,
pipe, dark glasses,
cracks open the door.] …brilliant brevity for the largely imaginative.

_They told me,
up tha street, you’re a guitar player,_
tol’_ me you make the box talk._ the beat poet’s bebop!
_I got one here,
you _wanna…… beginning of dialectal feasts to follow
_give it a workout?_

*What you drinkin?*

_What’s your pleasure?_

*I won’t say no to gin.*

_Done.
Be right back_.

………………………………

Lucille’s laying out,
willowy reed-thin,
on the rumpled bed;
no signs from her.
Blind Son
takes my Martin,
and proceeds…..I’m right there.
to stroke,
_hammer_,
and _fondle_ it;
sounds come out of it …love the _juxtaposing -_the bit of “it” slams!
in disbelief, but
no hesitation,
knee deep in cotton,…
where they started out
back in slave days.

He tunes to open,
takes a Prince Albert can …cool, was wondering what was in his pipe!
off a shelf,
slides it
up an’ down
the strings; can sliding up and down - what an imagination! 
they whine and cry,.   beautiful and they certainly would, thanks to the can.

like Robert Johnson’s when the devil tuned it up strange at the crossroads,
love him and his song referenced here- 
Highway 8 an’ 1, 
to a sound
unheard before.

Blind Son beams out:
*Oh, man, ah lahk 
this gitah….. *Lov’n dis an mo com’m – no sweat’n da idolect

He speaks gently
to Lucille,
asks her
to sing “one ‘a
the ol’ ones.”
She rolls over
on her back
and commences to
knock me out,
with a [voice
born in honky-tonks
and roadhouses,
sets time dancing,
hollering,
loving,
in booze
delirium. ]… Outrageous Lucille! – setting, sounds

Soft,  
Billie Holiday tones,
women’s blues,
jazzed into ,  clever
spaces between
pain and wonder,
joy and betrayal, let my underline speak. close to loss for words
floating memories 
of dance halls
and over-protective,
meanboyfriends, I do this, too. so love it  - though at a loss for FOS


Lying there, she introduces me
to a blues-land
cyclone
resting inside people,
released
every Saturday night,
from dusk
to late morning,
doin’ tha cakewalk,
tha shimmy,
swingout,
tha buzzard lope;
slingin’ barbecue,
gamblers’ cards
on the table,
whiskey
and homebrew
flowin.’ , got the pulse of the night, alright! …those back seat bings and things


“Dance all night
dance tha night
ta mornin,’
shut tha door,
dance some more.” dis da song

She sings time 
into enduring,
generous strokes
of queenly
celebration,
embodying a joy
borne out of
a brutal history,
redeeming
centuries
of her ancestors,
who move
ghostly limbs
in languorous
gestures
of survival. making Lucille real – her past rung out in song, sadbeautiful


I leave Blind Son the guitar, and tell my new favorite singer:

_Lucille, I hope you’re feelin’ better
soon._

“Betta awready.” bang! got the close 
__________________________________________________________________________________

Mastererly! RC,  Presently reading “The Best Minds of My Generation – A Literary History of The Beats” by Gisnberg . You might "dig it" if you've not got to reading it.




> I recorded this - but don't know if audio is allowed
> in this forum. - RC


Looking into this for you - Silver


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## RC James (Feb 19, 2018)

Thank you -SM - I've never had anyone in-line me with such relish and appreciation - staggers me - wow! - RC

BTW - My high school English cited Ginsberg as a front-running Beat poet - but he added that his best


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## RC James (Feb 19, 2018)

Thank you -SM - I've never had anyone in-line me with such relish and appreciation - staggers me - wow! - RC

BTW - My H.S. English teacher cited Ginsberg as one of the front-runner Beat poets but added that these lines were the best, and implied the only, lines of his worth remembering - He was a tad grumpy and exclusionary:


I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
                                                                                                                                 A.G.


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## RC James (Feb 19, 2018)

Thank you -SM - I've never had anyone in-line me with such relish and appreciation - staggers me - wow! - RC

BTW - My H.S. English teacher cited Ginsberg as one of the front-runner Beat poets but added that these lines were the best, and implied the only, lines of his worth remembering - He was a tad grumpy and exclusionary:


I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
                                                                                                                                 A.G.

Get hold of "Tristessa"  - Kerouac's novella - sadness as only Heavy lidded Jack could write.
Burroughs is in it - all about Junk - He's Ol' Bull:

Bull preaches the awful truth to Kerouac: “She don’t want love — You put Grace Kelly in this chair, Muckymuck’s morphine on that chair, Jack, I take the morphine, I no take the Grace Kelly.”


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## SilverMoon (Feb 19, 2018)

Well, RC. It's a rare day when I go in-line. And it was a joyful, vivid ride. You touched on all the human senses here, with intensity, humour, insight, heartbreak and on it goes. 

And that you've lived it. Fascinated. And more to come, I hope?

Great quotes up there! Loving  "Bull preaches the awefull truth...." LOL

Will definitly get around to reading "Tristessa"

It wall all my pleasure. Silver


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## RC James (Feb 19, 2018)

Silver - I'll post my song - "Mance's Dance" in Lyrics - "Shut tha door / play some more" in this one comes from that song - it's about Mance Lipscomb - one of the great country blues players - I learned my blues from  him - RC


https://soundcloud.com/rc-james-user841120068/z0000496-2


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## SilverMoon (Feb 19, 2018)

Wow! Put on the headphone. Now, I'm utterly speechless. Can you imagine that, Jack?


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## Pelwrath (Feb 20, 2018)

I’m jealous and envious. An excellent poem.


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## sas (Feb 20, 2018)

RC,

Your music brought back my favorite times spent at The Attic Bar, Hamtramick, MI, which is really surrounded by Detroit. The Attic was a joint. Everyone who was anyone played there. When I was there one New Year's Eve (buffet was homemade dishes on small table...smiles), after midnight, blues performers, who had sang and played elsewhere rolled in. Those gals were the only ones wearing sequins. LOL. Sang and played for us, for fun, for the damn need to play for themselves, standing on the table tops. Man, I tell ya, I thought I was in a movie. 

Thanks for posting yours. Applause. Sas

.


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## ArianSpirit (Feb 20, 2018)

WOW the sound puts this truly into perspective. Your voice when I listened reminded me of another song "Curtis Low". Not sure if that is spelled correctly but YOU BROUGHT THE BLUES TO LIFE! 

Loved it!

~A


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## CrimsonAngel223 (Feb 21, 2018)

I didn't read most of it but I'd say it was a roller coaster of a poem!


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## RC James (Feb 22, 2018)

I posted a revision with lengthened lines and some cuts - would love to hear reactions to the changes - RC


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