D ants in your pants
First, a question. Who wrote the book of love? We can't even pick the dang thing up. It's full of charts and facts and figures. And instructions for dancing.
We instruct you to come dancing this weekend at the D Note. Tonight, after the hilarious Geeks Who Drink trivia with jeezmaster Paul, we have the funk of the Charlie Milo trio followed by the tribal shake of The Gaia Experiment. These bands come with their own dancers, and they would like you to join them. $5.
Friday night we have A Curious Ghost at 5pm. You've really got to check out The Curious Ghost. Start at Curiousghost.com and then end at the D Note Friday. George Inai, the curious ghost in question, is one of our favorite local songwriters for sure.
Then we have Autumnal Fall and Dave Edwards at 7pm. This will be acoustic transcendentalism w/ a little bit of rock and roll. $5
The evening ends with the full on rock and roll of The JSK band at 9pm, which will be prime dance enabling music. $5
Saturday at 1pm we have a Gypsy Vs. Jazz showdown w/ Aaron Walker, Bob Schlessinger, Bob Montgomery and more. Excellent lunch date, most impressive. $10
At 4pm Saturday The Music Train Family Concert Series presents Michael Friedman & Swing set Jazz. $7/$3 kids. Your kids will dance wildly.
At 7pm we have the country blues music of the trio that goes by the name Some Train Yard. $5
At 8:30 pm we are back in rock and roll territory with The So What Brothers. This dance rock band won Channel 7's best band in Denver a few years ago. Come see why. $5
For those of you that need some yoga, Nicki Viera teaches a great class on Sunday morning at 10am. Melissa Ivey and Adam DeGraff provide the meditative music. Free, but donations toward local charities accepted.
Next Tuesday at 6pm we have the jazz quintet called The Metrognomes. (An apt name, as these guys are both little and on beat). Then at 8pm Tuesday we have The Statue Of Liberty Band, playing good old American bluegrass.
There are some choice choices for you.
Extra credit: Robert Frost is one of the few poets most folks have actually read. So it is about time to include a poem by Frost in this long running anthology of poetry called the D mail. This is our personal favorite poem by Frost, "cold as a spring as yet so near its source."
Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you’ll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry—
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there’s a story in a book about it:
Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels
The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,
The chisel work of an enormous Glacier
That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not mind a certain coolness from him
Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
Nor need you mind the serial ordeal
Of being watched from forty cellar holes
As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.
As for the woods’ excitement over you
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience.
Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.
Make yourself up a cheering song of how
Someone’s road home from work this once was,
Who may be just ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height
Of country where two village cultures faded
Into each other. Both of them are lost.
And if you’re lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make yourself at home. The only field
Now left’s no bigger than a harness gall.
First there’s the children’s house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad.
Then for the house that is no more a house,
But only a belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.
This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.
Your destination and your destiny’s
A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage.
(We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)
I have kept hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can’t find it,
So can’t get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn’t.
(I stole the goblet from the children’s playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.