D tourists,
We have such good music in store for you coming up this weekend. We almost can't believe it.
First, stop by and listen to the Clamdaddys on Wednesday nights. Or better yet, why not start a chess club? A crochet club? Bring it to Wednesday nights. There is no cover charge and The Clamdaddys' music creates a beautiful atmosphere. There are dance lessons by the incomparable Lark Mervine too, 7-8pm.
This Thursday night after trivia we have a house/dubstep/electro DJ in house named Mosik. $4. Come dance.
Friday night we have Andrew Wynn at 5pm (free), Dave Boyland Band at 7pm ($5). Then at 8:30pm 8th ElemEnt Entertainment presents Nancy Hubanks "Spy vs. Spy" CD Release, including performances by: DJ Mr. Willis, Y-Jay & Fame, Gamer Life, NexKin and special guests. $10 cover, includes CD.
And get a load of the line up on Saturday. We go Celtic to Flamenco to Indian to Afro-cuban all in one day. Whew!
Saturday at 1pm we have Tartan Day Festival Music w/ Skean Dubh (celtic acoustic). $5/ kids under 12 free.
Saturday at 6pm we have a Flamenco Show hosted by Natalia Perez de Villar. (flamenco music and dance) $12
Saturday at 8:30pm Creative Music Works presents Ravish Momin's Tarana. $15/ $9 students. There has been a lot of great press about this show and we're excited for it. Tarana's music uses live electronic beats and programming as the basis of improvisation influenced by jazz, East Indian, and Middle Eastern music. We're honored Creative Music Works is bringing one of their shows to the D Note. We hope there will be more. This will be a deep listening show.
Saturday at 10:30pm we have Rocktin Grove (funk, indie rock, blues, afro-cuban) $5
Next Tuesday will be a VERY cool local show at 7pm with Paul Dehaven (Eye and the Arrow/ Paper Bird), the Rorey Carol band, Birds Of A Feather (bluegrass) $5 suggested donation.
Next Thursday night we have the eighties retro tunes of Youthineyes.
Next Saturday we celebrate Dylan's B day w/ Postcards From A Hanging.
We are looking for a good idea for a regular event to bring in on Tuesday nights. If you have a good idea for this, please let us know.
Yours,
D baser
Extra credit: Here are a couple of terrific poems for you this week by Eduardo C. Corral...
In Colorado My Father Scoured and Stacked Dishes
in a Tex-Mex restaurant. His co-workers,
unable to utter his name, renamed him Jalapeño.
If I ask for a goldfish, he spits a glob of phlegm
into a jar of water. The silver letters
on his black belt spell Sangrón. Once, borracho,
at dinner, he said: Jesus wasn't a snowman.
Arriba Durango. Arriba Orizaba. Packed
into a car trunk, he was smuggled into the States.
Frijolero. Greaser. In Tucson he branded
cattle. He slept in a stable. The horse blankets
oddly fragrant: wood smoke, lilac. He's an illegal.
I'm an Illegal-American. Once, in a grove
of saguaro, at dusk, I slept next to him. I woke
with his thumb in my mouth. ¿No qué no
tronabas pistolita? He learned English
by listening to the radio. The first four words
he memorized: In God We Trust. The fifth:
Percolate. Again and again I borrow his clothes.
He calls me Scarecrow. In Oregon he picked apples.
Braeburn. Jonagold. Cameo. Nightly,
to entertain his cuates, around a campfire,
he strummed a guitarra, sang corridos. Arriba
Durango. Arriba Orizaba. Packed into
a car trunk, he was smuggled into the States.
Greaser. Beaner. Once, borracho, at breakfast,
he said: The heart can only be broken
once, like a window. ¡No mames! His favorite
belt buckle: an águila perched on a nopal.
If he laughs out loud, his hands tremble.
Bugs Bunny wants to deport him. César Chávez
wants to deport him. When I walk through
the desert, I wear his shirt. The gaze of the moon
stitches the buttons of his shirt to my skin.
The snake hisses. The snake is torn.
Self-Portrait with Tumbling and Lasso
I'm drumroll and voyeur.
I'm watermark
and fable. I'm weaving
the snarls
of a wolf through my hair
like ribbon. At my feet,
chisels
and jigsaws. I'm
performing
an autopsy on my shadow.
My rib cage a wall.
My heart
a crack in a wall,
a foothold. I'm tumbling
upward:
a French acrobat. I'm judder
and effigy.
I'm pompadour
and splendid. I'm spinning
on a spit, split
in half.
An apple
in my mouth. I know
what Eve
didn't know: a serpent
is a fruit eaten to the core. I'm
a massacre
of the dreamers,
a terra cotta soldier
waiting for
his emperor's return.
When I bow,
a black fish leaps
from the small of my back.
I catch it.
I tear it apart. I fix
the scales
to my lips.
Every word I utter
is opalescent. I'm skinned
and Orphic.
I'm scarlet
and threshold. At my touch,
a piano
melts like a slab
of black ice. I'm
steam rising,
dissipating. I'm a ghost undressing.
I'm a cowboy
riding bareback.
My soul is
whirling
above my head like a lasso.
My right hand a pistol.
My left
automatic. I'm knocking
on every door.
I'm coming on strong,
like a missionary.
I'm kicking back
my legs, like a mule. I'm kicking up
my legs, like
a showgirl.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
D Note love letter plus poem
Dean Otes,
Hello, do you have any extra time for poetry today? If so, be patient, we will get to it. If not, don't forget about it.
Meanwhile, lots of news.
First, let us just say that the bluegrass jam hosted by Martin Gilmore tonight at 9pm will be as harmoniously tasty as the Geeks Who Drink trivia event just preceding it will be hilariously zesty. And it is free. Bring an axe.
Tomorrow night we have the debut of a new band called Rim Of The Well. This new band is extra special to us because it is helmed by one of our musical heroes, Steve Mullins. The style is original flamenco-fusion and features guitar, marimba, violin, and percussion. $12/$10 students. This one will be a fine example of what the D Note is all about.
After Rim Of The Well we have Author Unknown and Bailout. Author Unknown features Mark Sundermeier, the man who books the Toad Tavern. The music can be described as a well wrought pop rock. And Bailout just rocks. $7
Saturday at 1pm we have The Guests, The Fizzy Lifters, Voltage (rock, free).
Saturday at 7pm Phoenix presents our Spring Fling Hafla. Featuring several dance troupes and the neo middle eastern-fusion band Yallah! More fusion! $8 adults/$5 kids under 12
After the Hafla, at 10pm we have the wonderfully deep funk of The Volunteer Funk Department. $5.
Sunday we are closed for Easter festivities until 6pm when we will open for a special salsa featuring the music of DJ Nelson. Only $6 this week, includes a lesson by the amazing Joseph Snowhawk.
Next Tuesday we have a special treat for you called My Old School at 7:30p- A Tribute to the Music of Steely Dan. This event, incredibly, is FREE.
Wow, that's a heck of nice job booking music there, bub. Thanks, not so bad yourself!
D Scribe
Extra Credit: Here's a thought provoking poem by our friend, the wolfman, Filip Marinovich.
Filip Marinovich
WOOD BUTCHER
"We are all damned" the carpenter says
and "I'm a wood butcher"
when I tell him "You're a sculptor"
he says "A year ago at this time
I had surge—
surgery" with
hazel eyes
"surgery to remove a Christ
from my skull
I had dreamed about
since I was twelve."
The fact that Christ was there
without his apostles
explains nothing.
His cradle looked like the Christ
in the Christ of
the Virgin of Megalith
like the Della Robbia blue Virgin of
Asphyxiation
hanging in the
treetop aviary with the Evian
glass bottle wind chimes—
"I always say: if you can stab it and it doesn't bleed
it ain't my work."
If you can stab it and it doesn't bleed
nail a tree to it and nail me to the tree
the cradle I made the cradle I made
for one two three one two three
"Family family family!" on three.
The football team kills the family at kickoff
and the field goal makes it three like baby
it's war
the dead are here and
you don't know how to breathe
for their attendance
you have to attend
here they come
set the table
the cherry table you made
with the cherry wood
it has lights in it
"I only pick the trees that grow out of
the most difficult earth
because it makes them tough
and I want tough trees"
tough trees are me
tough trees are mean
they raise me
I am number one in the tough tree family
the only child in the tough tree
family tree you'll see
isn't that glory
a carpenter
we have to learn how to serve each other
to go under the people who would
put other people down and serve them
and make the good in them happen
and we are damned
to serve
this cradle a glyph a letter
this wood cradle is burning but the baby will
never burn in it.
The baby who will never burn in it
cut the umbilical cord and the telephone cord
with one sword. It's war
Hello, do you have any extra time for poetry today? If so, be patient, we will get to it. If not, don't forget about it.
Meanwhile, lots of news.
First, let us just say that the bluegrass jam hosted by Martin Gilmore tonight at 9pm will be as harmoniously tasty as the Geeks Who Drink trivia event just preceding it will be hilariously zesty. And it is free. Bring an axe.
Tomorrow night we have the debut of a new band called Rim Of The Well. This new band is extra special to us because it is helmed by one of our musical heroes, Steve Mullins. The style is original flamenco-fusion and features guitar, marimba, violin, and percussion. $12/$10 students. This one will be a fine example of what the D Note is all about.
After Rim Of The Well we have Author Unknown and Bailout. Author Unknown features Mark Sundermeier, the man who books the Toad Tavern. The music can be described as a well wrought pop rock. And Bailout just rocks. $7
Saturday at 1pm we have The Guests, The Fizzy Lifters, Voltage (rock, free).
Saturday at 7pm Phoenix presents our Spring Fling Hafla. Featuring several dance troupes and the neo middle eastern-fusion band Yallah! More fusion! $8 adults/$5 kids under 12
After the Hafla, at 10pm we have the wonderfully deep funk of The Volunteer Funk Department. $5.
Sunday we are closed for Easter festivities until 6pm when we will open for a special salsa featuring the music of DJ Nelson. Only $6 this week, includes a lesson by the amazing Joseph Snowhawk.
Next Tuesday we have a special treat for you called My Old School at 7:30p- A Tribute to the Music of Steely Dan. This event, incredibly, is FREE.
Wow, that's a heck of nice job booking music there, bub. Thanks, not so bad yourself!
D Scribe
Extra Credit: Here's a thought provoking poem by our friend, the wolfman, Filip Marinovich.
Filip Marinovich
WOOD BUTCHER
"We are all damned" the carpenter says
and "I'm a wood butcher"
when I tell him "You're a sculptor"
he says "A year ago at this time
I had surge—
surgery" with
hazel eyes
"surgery to remove a Christ
from my skull
I had dreamed about
since I was twelve."
The fact that Christ was there
without his apostles
explains nothing.
His cradle looked like the Christ
in the Christ of
the Virgin of Megalith
like the Della Robbia blue Virgin of
Asphyxiation
hanging in the
treetop aviary with the Evian
glass bottle wind chimes—
"I always say: if you can stab it and it doesn't bleed
it ain't my work."
If you can stab it and it doesn't bleed
nail a tree to it and nail me to the tree
the cradle I made the cradle I made
for one two three one two three
"Family family family!" on three.
The football team kills the family at kickoff
and the field goal makes it three like baby
it's war
the dead are here and
you don't know how to breathe
for their attendance
you have to attend
here they come
set the table
the cherry table you made
with the cherry wood
it has lights in it
"I only pick the trees that grow out of
the most difficult earth
because it makes them tough
and I want tough trees"
tough trees are me
tough trees are mean
they raise me
I am number one in the tough tree family
the only child in the tough tree
family tree you'll see
isn't that glory
a carpenter
we have to learn how to serve each other
to go under the people who would
put other people down and serve them
and make the good in them happen
and we are damned
to serve
this cradle a glyph a letter
this wood cradle is burning but the baby will
never burn in it.
The baby who will never burn in it
cut the umbilical cord and the telephone cord
with one sword. It's war
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
weekend update 3/28/12
D regulars,
This is coming to you a little early so we can let you know that the legendary promoter Barry Fey is going to be speaking at the D Note tonight at 6:30p. This event is sponsored by the Jeffco Library. This means no dance lesson tonight, but Lark will continue her swing lessons next Wednesday. After Fey will be the beloved Clamdaddys.
Tomorrow night after trivia we have Colorado Grassroots Hip Hop w/ Breakfast Club, Audible, and No Frequency. $5.
Friday night we have some great indie rock w/ The Ghostowners (7pm) Idlewhile (8:30pm) and Bimarinal (10pm) $7
Saturday at 1pm we have a Jam Jam Presented by Ben, Rick, Darryl & Dan. Bring your axe. Free. Then at 6pm Julio Perez, Rachel Frances, Josh Abeyta, Gracie Sprague. $5 and finally at 9:30pm we have Dikki Du and The Zydeco Crew (from New Orleans) $10.
That's the weekend in a virtual nutshell.
Pleased to please you,
D cup
Extra Credit: Our friend Darin Stevenson just posted a very interesting story on FaceBook which we reproduce for your pleasure here.
The Gunfight
The tavern perched like a misshapen pile of vulture carcasses fallen on the fatal road of some unseen stranger’s misplaced history. I blew in from nowhere anyone could guess, on the back of a horse what assembled himself from livid fruit blossoms and hummingbird bones. Dismounting, I made for the twin gate of the entrance.
As I pressed and passed the creaking panels, some joker at the counter turned to face me — vortal clouds of colored dust rising in prismatic waves from the blurry structure of his intangible topside. In a flash I recognized this amphibian desperado: The Technicolor Kid. We’d been hunting each other since before the sun blew plasma on the void. We both drew instinctively while bystanders ducked and soiled themselves; the screams of their terror seeming to add a lightness to my trusty weapon, which fairly leapt into my hand like the woman I was born to marry.
Time slowed down to a crawling insect with only a single remaining leg. The bartender jumped for cover, and I saw tables flipping over in slow-mo as the T-Kid’s weapon left its soggy holster. Our mouths began to name each other, but after the initial wavelets of sound failed to assemble in molasses-time, all that emerged were warping garbles punctuated by flurries of ghost-moths.
Our weapons rose like dumb stars on the horizon, like the ache of long-dead ancestors for a vengeance they’d forgotten the whole history of, like frozen bees slowly gaining temperature in a dawn that refused to break. Finally, after dead eternities without number, we leveled off and pulled.
A single silver hornet burst forth from my barrel, crashing through the wall of stillness all around us. A shining black beetle sang forward from his, and I sensed the outcome long before the rotund woman at the piano began to spout opera like sonic blood from some fatal aural gash. The beetle missed me, lodging in shattering wood just a pinch of distance from my left ocular orbit. My hornet found its home in his right cheekbone, and his face blew apart, revealing mushrooms and gels of colors unheard of, flowers from prehistoric flora, and other substances bold and unmentionable.
His jaw relaxed and dangled for a moment, exposing teeth from some author’s phantasms turned intolerably into the white and silent witnesses of stillborn splendors. As his gun arm buckled, drooping, his weapon tilted forward from his failing grasp toward the Earth, and I took the step I’d previously intended into perfect time... into the bar... and toward the shock of color and vegetation now spilling anxiously from the remnants of my ancient adversary. The atmosphere itself seemed to exhale a breath long held in tension as the bystanders began to recover themselves to whatever degree they were able.
The Technicolor Kid was unbegotten. Our little love affair had come, at last, to an appropriate and satisfactory end. I moved to holster my weapon, which was moist in my grasp and threatened to become some kind of bird. As I pressed it gingerly into the sheath at my hip, I felt a shiver from the heart of the the thing... a giddy tension that it released into my hand... my arm... and on into the deepest waters of my oceans. And then it relented, and I sank it in the leather pocket where its weight is so familiar.
I was going to drink now. Long and deep. Maybe I’d think about that woman I was born to marry. About her mind, whereabouts and condition. About our chances. About whether or not she’d recognize me. And then, when suitably intoxicated, I’d take water, find a bed upstairs, and let myself to sleep.
A colorless sleep, born of starspeech and trail-dust. A sleep perfected in the secret silences of caverns of the deepest Earth.
A sleep immortal, and divine.
This is coming to you a little early so we can let you know that the legendary promoter Barry Fey is going to be speaking at the D Note tonight at 6:30p. This event is sponsored by the Jeffco Library. This means no dance lesson tonight, but Lark will continue her swing lessons next Wednesday. After Fey will be the beloved Clamdaddys.
Tomorrow night after trivia we have Colorado Grassroots Hip Hop w/ Breakfast Club, Audible, and No Frequency. $5.
Friday night we have some great indie rock w/ The Ghostowners (7pm) Idlewhile (8:30pm) and Bimarinal (10pm) $7
Saturday at 1pm we have a Jam Jam Presented by Ben, Rick, Darryl & Dan. Bring your axe. Free. Then at 6pm Julio Perez, Rachel Frances, Josh Abeyta, Gracie Sprague. $5 and finally at 9:30pm we have Dikki Du and The Zydeco Crew (from New Orleans) $10.
That's the weekend in a virtual nutshell.
Pleased to please you,
D cup
Extra Credit: Our friend Darin Stevenson just posted a very interesting story on FaceBook which we reproduce for your pleasure here.
The Gunfight
The tavern perched like a misshapen pile of vulture carcasses fallen on the fatal road of some unseen stranger’s misplaced history. I blew in from nowhere anyone could guess, on the back of a horse what assembled himself from livid fruit blossoms and hummingbird bones. Dismounting, I made for the twin gate of the entrance.
As I pressed and passed the creaking panels, some joker at the counter turned to face me — vortal clouds of colored dust rising in prismatic waves from the blurry structure of his intangible topside. In a flash I recognized this amphibian desperado: The Technicolor Kid. We’d been hunting each other since before the sun blew plasma on the void. We both drew instinctively while bystanders ducked and soiled themselves; the screams of their terror seeming to add a lightness to my trusty weapon, which fairly leapt into my hand like the woman I was born to marry.
Time slowed down to a crawling insect with only a single remaining leg. The bartender jumped for cover, and I saw tables flipping over in slow-mo as the T-Kid’s weapon left its soggy holster. Our mouths began to name each other, but after the initial wavelets of sound failed to assemble in molasses-time, all that emerged were warping garbles punctuated by flurries of ghost-moths.
Our weapons rose like dumb stars on the horizon, like the ache of long-dead ancestors for a vengeance they’d forgotten the whole history of, like frozen bees slowly gaining temperature in a dawn that refused to break. Finally, after dead eternities without number, we leveled off and pulled.
A single silver hornet burst forth from my barrel, crashing through the wall of stillness all around us. A shining black beetle sang forward from his, and I sensed the outcome long before the rotund woman at the piano began to spout opera like sonic blood from some fatal aural gash. The beetle missed me, lodging in shattering wood just a pinch of distance from my left ocular orbit. My hornet found its home in his right cheekbone, and his face blew apart, revealing mushrooms and gels of colors unheard of, flowers from prehistoric flora, and other substances bold and unmentionable.
His jaw relaxed and dangled for a moment, exposing teeth from some author’s phantasms turned intolerably into the white and silent witnesses of stillborn splendors. As his gun arm buckled, drooping, his weapon tilted forward from his failing grasp toward the Earth, and I took the step I’d previously intended into perfect time... into the bar... and toward the shock of color and vegetation now spilling anxiously from the remnants of my ancient adversary. The atmosphere itself seemed to exhale a breath long held in tension as the bystanders began to recover themselves to whatever degree they were able.
The Technicolor Kid was unbegotten. Our little love affair had come, at last, to an appropriate and satisfactory end. I moved to holster my weapon, which was moist in my grasp and threatened to become some kind of bird. As I pressed it gingerly into the sheath at my hip, I felt a shiver from the heart of the the thing... a giddy tension that it released into my hand... my arm... and on into the deepest waters of my oceans. And then it relented, and I sank it in the leather pocket where its weight is so familiar.
I was going to drink now. Long and deep. Maybe I’d think about that woman I was born to marry. About her mind, whereabouts and condition. About our chances. About whether or not she’d recognize me. And then, when suitably intoxicated, I’d take water, find a bed upstairs, and let myself to sleep.
A colorless sleep, born of starspeech and trail-dust. A sleep perfected in the secret silences of caverns of the deepest Earth.
A sleep immortal, and divine.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
D Note love letter plus poem 3/22/12
D ples,
Hello friends. We trust and hope nature is taking care of you. And we mean that in the beautiful spring way.
Tonight, Thursday March 22, we have a band called Ravello at 9pm, after Geeks Who Drink Trivia (6:30pm). Ravello is an excellent rock band from Nashville Tennessee on tour. You will likely likee. $5.
Friday night we start out with Bill McKay on keys (from Leftover Salmon) at 5pm. Then at 7pm we have the acoustic emo grunge style of Defy You Stars and Kyle Coy. At 8:30pm we have the brilliant pop rock of The Host Club Band and we end the night with Dirty Lightning (psychedelic funk). $5
Friday night there is a One Plus One singles meet and greet at 7:30 pm and all singles are invited to come and meet others of their kind. Who knows, could be that special night. It has been known to happen at the D Note on occasion.
Saturday at 4 pm we have Sentimental Sounds Big Band. Wonderful! Free!
Then Zeut plays at 7pm, an excellent eclectic band with fine taste, helmed by Robert Eldridge, followed by Snake Oil at 8:30pm, another solid blues rock folk based band. The night ends with Still The Sky's The Limit , lovely indie rock from Orange County CA. $5
Next Tuesday we have Henriksen Amp Presents Guitar Jazz Greats at 6:30pm. This event has been pretty amazing over the last few months. If you are a jazz guitar fan come check it out.
After the jazz next tuesday we have an excellent Roots Reggae band from Humboldt CA called SNRGY. $5. That'll be a sweet "secret" show.
Signing off,
D plus
Extra Credit: How about a very long, creepy and beautiful poem by Christina Rossetti? This one is likely way too long to include in this space, but the space is free even if your time may not be. If any of you actually read it we'd love to get your take on it. Christina Rossetti always insisted this was a children's poem. Really?
Goblin Market
MORNING and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries-
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries--
All ripe together
In summer weather--
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy;
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,
Come buy, come buy."
Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bowed her head to hear,
Lizzie veiled her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
"Lie close," Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?"
"Come buy," call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
"O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men."
Lizzie covered up her eyes
Covered close lest they should look;
Laura reared her glossy head,
And whispered like the restless brook:
"Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds' weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes."
"No," said Lizzie, "no, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us."
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat's face,
One whisked a tail,
One tramped at a rat's pace,
One crawled like a snail,
One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry.
Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.
Laura stretched her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.
Backwards up the mossy glen
Turned and trooped the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
"Come buy, come buy."
When they reached where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One reared his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heaved the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
"Come buy, come buy," was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Longed but had no money:
The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr'd,
The rat-paced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly";
One whistled like a bird.
But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
"Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather."
"You have much gold upon your head,"
They answered altogether:
"Buy from us with a golden curl."
She clipped a precious golden lock,
She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flowed that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She sucked and sucked and sucked the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore,
She sucked until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away,
But gathered up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turned home alone.
Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
"Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Plucked from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the moonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so."
"Nay hush," said Laura.
"Nay hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more," and kissed her.
"Have done with sorrow;
I'll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons, icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink,
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap."
Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down, in their curtained bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fallen snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipped with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars beamed in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapped to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Locked together in one nest.
Early in the morning
When the first cock crowed his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetched in honey, milked the cows,
Aired and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churned butter, whipped up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;
Talked as modest maidens should
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day's delight,
One longing for the night.
At length slow evening came--
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep
Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags,
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep."
But Laura loitered still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.
And said the hour was early still,
The dew not fallen, the wind not chill:
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
"Come buy, come buy,"
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to tramp along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.
Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come,
I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glow-worm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark;
For clouds may gather even
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?"
Laura turned cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
"Come buy our fruits, come buy."
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life drooped from the root:
She said not one word in her heart's sore ache;
But peering thro' the dimness, naught discerning,
Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent 'til Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.
Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain,
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
"Come buy, come buy,"
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon waxed bright
Her hair grew thin and gray;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay, and burn
Her fire away.
One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watched for a waxing shoot,
But there came none;
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crowned trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.
She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.
Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister's cankerous care,
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins' cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy."
Beside the brook, along the glen
She heard the tramp of goblin men,
The voice and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,
But feared to pay too dear,
She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter-time,
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time.
Till Laura, dwindling,
Seemed knocking at Death's door:
Then Lizzie weighed no more
Better and worse,
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook,
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.
Laughed every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes, --
Hugged her and kissed her;
Squeezed and caressed her;
Stretched up their dishes,
Panniers and plates:
"Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and suck them,
Pomegranates, figs."
"Good folk," said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie,
"Give me much and many"; --
Held out her apron,
Tossed them her penny.
"Nay, take a seat with us,
Honor and eat with us,"
They answered grinning;
"Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry;
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavor would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us."
"Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits
At home alone for me:
So, without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I tossed you for a fee."
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One called her proud,
Cross-grained, uncivil;
Their tones waxed loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.
White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Lashed by tides obstreperously, --
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire, --
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee, --
Like a royal virgin town
Topped with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguered by a fleet
Mad to tear her standard down.
One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
Coaxed and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
Kicked and knocked her,
Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in;
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syruped all her face,
And lodged in dimples of her chin,
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot.
Some writhed into the ground,
Some dived into the brook
With ring and ripple.
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanished in the distance.
In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore through the furze,
Threaded copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse, --
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she feared some goblin man
Dogged her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin skurried after,
Nor was she pricked by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.
She cried "Laura," up the garden,
"Did you miss me ?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me:
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men."
Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutched her hair:
"Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruined in my ruin;
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?"
She clung about her sister,
Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
Tears once again
Refreshed her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.
Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loathed the feast:
Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks streamed like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.
Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame,
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense failed in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topped water-spout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life ?
Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watched by her,
Counted her pulse's flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cooled her face
With tears and fanning leaves:
But when the first birds chirped about their eaves,
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves,
And dew-wet grass
Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new buds with new day
Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laughed in the innocent old way,
Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray,
Her breath was sweet as May,
And light danced in her eyes.
Days, weeks, months,years
Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen,
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat,
But poison in the blood;
(Men sell not such in any town;)
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good,
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together,
"For there is no friend like a sister,
In calm or stormy weather,
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands."
D plus
--
/)dam I)eGraff
www.dnote.us
Hello friends. We trust and hope nature is taking care of you. And we mean that in the beautiful spring way.
Tonight, Thursday March 22, we have a band called Ravello at 9pm, after Geeks Who Drink Trivia (6:30pm). Ravello is an excellent rock band from Nashville Tennessee on tour. You will likely likee. $5.
Friday night we start out with Bill McKay on keys (from Leftover Salmon) at 5pm. Then at 7pm we have the acoustic emo grunge style of Defy You Stars and Kyle Coy. At 8:30pm we have the brilliant pop rock of The Host Club Band and we end the night with Dirty Lightning (psychedelic funk). $5
Friday night there is a One Plus One singles meet and greet at 7:30 pm and all singles are invited to come and meet others of their kind. Who knows, could be that special night. It has been known to happen at the D Note on occasion.
Saturday at 4 pm we have Sentimental Sounds Big Band. Wonderful! Free!
Then Zeut plays at 7pm, an excellent eclectic band with fine taste, helmed by Robert Eldridge, followed by Snake Oil at 8:30pm, another solid blues rock folk based band. The night ends with Still The Sky's The Limit , lovely indie rock from Orange County CA. $5
Next Tuesday we have Henriksen Amp Presents Guitar Jazz Greats at 6:30pm. This event has been pretty amazing over the last few months. If you are a jazz guitar fan come check it out.
After the jazz next tuesday we have an excellent Roots Reggae band from Humboldt CA called SNRGY. $5. That'll be a sweet "secret" show.
Signing off,
D plus
Extra Credit: How about a very long, creepy and beautiful poem by Christina Rossetti? This one is likely way too long to include in this space, but the space is free even if your time may not be. If any of you actually read it we'd love to get your take on it. Christina Rossetti always insisted this was a children's poem. Really?
Goblin Market
MORNING and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries-
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries--
All ripe together
In summer weather--
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy;
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,
Come buy, come buy."
Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bowed her head to hear,
Lizzie veiled her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
"Lie close," Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?"
"Come buy," call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
"O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men."
Lizzie covered up her eyes
Covered close lest they should look;
Laura reared her glossy head,
And whispered like the restless brook:
"Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds' weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes."
"No," said Lizzie, "no, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us."
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat's face,
One whisked a tail,
One tramped at a rat's pace,
One crawled like a snail,
One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry.
Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.
Laura stretched her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.
Backwards up the mossy glen
Turned and trooped the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
"Come buy, come buy."
When they reached where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One reared his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heaved the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
"Come buy, come buy," was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Longed but had no money:
The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr'd,
The rat-paced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly";
One whistled like a bird.
But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
"Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather."
"You have much gold upon your head,"
They answered altogether:
"Buy from us with a golden curl."
She clipped a precious golden lock,
She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flowed that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She sucked and sucked and sucked the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore,
She sucked until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away,
But gathered up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turned home alone.
Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
"Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Plucked from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the moonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so."
"Nay hush," said Laura.
"Nay hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more," and kissed her.
"Have done with sorrow;
I'll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons, icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink,
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap."
Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down, in their curtained bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fallen snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipped with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars beamed in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapped to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Locked together in one nest.
Early in the morning
When the first cock crowed his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetched in honey, milked the cows,
Aired and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churned butter, whipped up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;
Talked as modest maidens should
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day's delight,
One longing for the night.
At length slow evening came--
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep
Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags,
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep."
But Laura loitered still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.
And said the hour was early still,
The dew not fallen, the wind not chill:
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
"Come buy, come buy,"
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to tramp along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.
Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come,
I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glow-worm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark;
For clouds may gather even
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?"
Laura turned cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
"Come buy our fruits, come buy."
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life drooped from the root:
She said not one word in her heart's sore ache;
But peering thro' the dimness, naught discerning,
Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent 'til Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.
Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain,
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
"Come buy, come buy,"
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon waxed bright
Her hair grew thin and gray;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay, and burn
Her fire away.
One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watched for a waxing shoot,
But there came none;
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crowned trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.
She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.
Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister's cankerous care,
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins' cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy."
Beside the brook, along the glen
She heard the tramp of goblin men,
The voice and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,
But feared to pay too dear,
She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter-time,
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time.
Till Laura, dwindling,
Seemed knocking at Death's door:
Then Lizzie weighed no more
Better and worse,
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook,
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.
Laughed every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes, --
Hugged her and kissed her;
Squeezed and caressed her;
Stretched up their dishes,
Panniers and plates:
"Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and suck them,
Pomegranates, figs."
"Good folk," said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie,
"Give me much and many"; --
Held out her apron,
Tossed them her penny.
"Nay, take a seat with us,
Honor and eat with us,"
They answered grinning;
"Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry;
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavor would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us."
"Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits
At home alone for me:
So, without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I tossed you for a fee."
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One called her proud,
Cross-grained, uncivil;
Their tones waxed loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.
White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Lashed by tides obstreperously, --
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire, --
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee, --
Like a royal virgin town
Topped with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguered by a fleet
Mad to tear her standard down.
One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
Coaxed and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
Kicked and knocked her,
Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in;
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syruped all her face,
And lodged in dimples of her chin,
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot.
Some writhed into the ground,
Some dived into the brook
With ring and ripple.
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanished in the distance.
In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore through the furze,
Threaded copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse, --
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she feared some goblin man
Dogged her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin skurried after,
Nor was she pricked by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.
She cried "Laura," up the garden,
"Did you miss me ?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me:
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men."
Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutched her hair:
"Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruined in my ruin;
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?"
She clung about her sister,
Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
Tears once again
Refreshed her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.
Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loathed the feast:
Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks streamed like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.
Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame,
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense failed in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topped water-spout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life ?
Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watched by her,
Counted her pulse's flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cooled her face
With tears and fanning leaves:
But when the first birds chirped about their eaves,
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves,
And dew-wet grass
Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new buds with new day
Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laughed in the innocent old way,
Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray,
Her breath was sweet as May,
And light danced in her eyes.
Days, weeks, months,years
Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen,
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat,
But poison in the blood;
(Men sell not such in any town;)
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good,
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together,
"For there is no friend like a sister,
In calm or stormy weather,
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands."
D plus
--
/)dam I)eGraff
www.dnote.us
Thursday, March 15, 2012
weekend update 3/15/11
D flowers,
Spring is everywhere. Spring is in the air and there's a spring underground leading to a fountain (that, as the song goes, was not made by the and of man.) There's even a spring in our step.
On to the weekend. First, Geeks Who Drink Trivia is every Thursday night at 6:30pm. It's a great game, but even if you are not a trivia fan you will have fun. We defy you not to laugh out loud at least once during Thursday night trivia. After trivia, tonight, Thursday March 15, we have a band called Terra Legato (progressive pop rock, free.)
Friday night we have dance cover band PJ Hahn (dance/ blues) at 6pm. This one is a benefit to help pay for the medical expenses of the band's teenage son, Brian Bucenek who was in a near fatal car accident. $5-$10 suggested donation. After this we have a benefit for To Write Love On Her Arms, an organization for women battling addiction, with Blind Brilliance (pop/punk) and Best 303 Sounds. $5.
Saturday at 2pm we have BackBeat jazz playing (free). At 7:30pm we have The Dustin Pittsley Band (epic Southern Rock, from OK) w/ Rev Hooch. This show is sponsored by Jagermeister so that should indicate a fun night of rock and roll. Not to mention it is St. Patrick's Day! $5
Next Tuesday, on the Spring equinox itself, we have some fine jazz, Kelly Zinge's Trouble, at 8pm. $5.
That's our weekend and we shall wear it well,
D forest
Extra Credit: Here's an ecstatic Spring forward poem by miss Emily Dickinson.
I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.
When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!
Spring is everywhere. Spring is in the air and there's a spring underground leading to a fountain (that, as the song goes, was not made by the and of man.) There's even a spring in our step.
On to the weekend. First, Geeks Who Drink Trivia is every Thursday night at 6:30pm. It's a great game, but even if you are not a trivia fan you will have fun. We defy you not to laugh out loud at least once during Thursday night trivia. After trivia, tonight, Thursday March 15, we have a band called Terra Legato (progressive pop rock, free.)
Friday night we have dance cover band PJ Hahn (dance/ blues) at 6pm. This one is a benefit to help pay for the medical expenses of the band's teenage son, Brian Bucenek who was in a near fatal car accident. $5-$10 suggested donation. After this we have a benefit for To Write Love On Her Arms, an organization for women battling addiction, with Blind Brilliance (pop/punk) and Best 303 Sounds. $5.
Saturday at 2pm we have BackBeat jazz playing (free). At 7:30pm we have The Dustin Pittsley Band (epic Southern Rock, from OK) w/ Rev Hooch. This show is sponsored by Jagermeister so that should indicate a fun night of rock and roll. Not to mention it is St. Patrick's Day! $5
Next Tuesday, on the Spring equinox itself, we have some fine jazz, Kelly Zinge's Trouble, at 8pm. $5.
That's our weekend and we shall wear it well,
D forest
Extra Credit: Here's an ecstatic Spring forward poem by miss Emily Dickinson.
I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.
When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!
Thursday, March 8, 2012
update 3/8/12
D Port,
How, hi are you?
We hope you are sweller than a monster wave off the North Shore of Oahu.
Tonight, for your information, we have a cool indie rock band at 9pm (after trivia) called Black Postcards. Send one to yourself. Free.
Tomorrow night, Friday March 9, we have old school gothic folk, then bluegrass, then rockabilly, a fine progression. Good Neighbor (lovely gothic folk) plays at 5pm (free). Then Broke Bridge (bluegrass) plays at 7pm, followed by Brent Loveday (of Reno Divorce), followed by Phantom 88 (rockabilly). Brent Loveday is one of our favorite crooners, he writes fantastic rockabilly-tinged songs and performs them with suave panache. $7.
Saturday at 3pm we have a swing dance lesson + Serenade In Blue Big Band (at 4pm) all for ONLY $5.
Saturday night we have our smooth friend Drew Schofield playing with his band. Drew will be followed by Taking Issue and Half In The Bag, two local solid rock bands. $5.
Sunday morning yoga at 10am is good for what ails you. Taught by Nickie Viera, with live music by Melissa Ivey and Adam DeGraff.
Mondays we have a new open stage host. Our last host, Jay Ryan, is taking a break to focus on writing and recording his own music. Our best to him and much appreciation for five wondeful years of hosting. The new host will be Turtle. Some of you may know Turtle as he has been around helping out at the D Note for almost a decade now. Sign up is still at 6:30p, so come and show us your musical wares.
Next Tuesday night at 9pm we have a really good Southern Rock band from The North; Clovis Mann, from Ontario Canada. Clovis Mann is another one of those great bands that flit through the D Note on on an off night, on their way through town, and blow minds. There will be yet another one of those the following Tuesday after next, a roots reggae outfit called SNRGY.
The Clamdaddys return to Wednesday nights after a little break. Glad to have them back. A reminder that we have $5 swing dance lessons with a fantastic teacher, Lark Mervine, on Wednesdays at 7pm.
That's all the pews that's knit to front,
D plane
Extra Credit: This rather remarkable gnostic "poem" is from the Nag Hammadi ms. found in 1945 (written in Greek circa 150 AD).
THE THUNDER, PERFECT MIND
I was sent forth from the power,
and I have come to those who reflect upon me,
and I have been found among those who seek after me.
Look upon me, you who reflect upon me,
and you hearers, hear me.
You who are waiting for me, take me to yourselves.
Do not be ignorant of me anywhere or any time. Be on your guard!
For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin.
I am the mother and the daughter.
I am the members of my mother.
I am the barren one
and many are her sons.
I am she whose wedding is great,
and I have not taken a husband.
I am the midwife and she who does not bear.
I am the solace of my labor pains.
I am the bride and the bridegroom,
and it is my husband who begot me.
I am the mother of my father
and the sister of my husband
and he is my offspring.
I am the silence that is incomprehensible
and the idea whose remembrance is frequent.
I am the voice whose sound is manifold
and the word whose appearance is multiple.
I am the utterance of my name.
Why, you who hate me, do you love me,
and hate those who love me?
You who deny me, confess me,
and you who confess me, deny me.
You who tell the truth about me, lie about me,
and you who have lied about me, tell the truth about me.
You who know me, be ignorant of me,
and those who have not known me, let them know me.
How, hi are you?
We hope you are sweller than a monster wave off the North Shore of Oahu.
Tonight, for your information, we have a cool indie rock band at 9pm (after trivia) called Black Postcards. Send one to yourself. Free.
Tomorrow night, Friday March 9, we have old school gothic folk, then bluegrass, then rockabilly, a fine progression. Good Neighbor (lovely gothic folk) plays at 5pm (free). Then Broke Bridge (bluegrass) plays at 7pm, followed by Brent Loveday (of Reno Divorce), followed by Phantom 88 (rockabilly). Brent Loveday is one of our favorite crooners, he writes fantastic rockabilly-tinged songs and performs them with suave panache. $7.
Saturday at 3pm we have a swing dance lesson + Serenade In Blue Big Band (at 4pm) all for ONLY $5.
Saturday night we have our smooth friend Drew Schofield playing with his band. Drew will be followed by Taking Issue and Half In The Bag, two local solid rock bands. $5.
Sunday morning yoga at 10am is good for what ails you. Taught by Nickie Viera, with live music by Melissa Ivey and Adam DeGraff.
Mondays we have a new open stage host. Our last host, Jay Ryan, is taking a break to focus on writing and recording his own music. Our best to him and much appreciation for five wondeful years of hosting. The new host will be Turtle. Some of you may know Turtle as he has been around helping out at the D Note for almost a decade now. Sign up is still at 6:30p, so come and show us your musical wares.
Next Tuesday night at 9pm we have a really good Southern Rock band from The North; Clovis Mann, from Ontario Canada. Clovis Mann is another one of those great bands that flit through the D Note on on an off night, on their way through town, and blow minds. There will be yet another one of those the following Tuesday after next, a roots reggae outfit called SNRGY.
The Clamdaddys return to Wednesday nights after a little break. Glad to have them back. A reminder that we have $5 swing dance lessons with a fantastic teacher, Lark Mervine, on Wednesdays at 7pm.
That's all the pews that's knit to front,
D plane
Extra Credit: This rather remarkable gnostic "poem" is from the Nag Hammadi ms. found in 1945 (written in Greek circa 150 AD).
THE THUNDER, PERFECT MIND
I was sent forth from the power,
and I have come to those who reflect upon me,
and I have been found among those who seek after me.
Look upon me, you who reflect upon me,
and you hearers, hear me.
You who are waiting for me, take me to yourselves.
Do not be ignorant of me anywhere or any time. Be on your guard!
For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin.
I am the mother and the daughter.
I am the members of my mother.
I am the barren one
and many are her sons.
I am she whose wedding is great,
and I have not taken a husband.
I am the midwife and she who does not bear.
I am the solace of my labor pains.
I am the bride and the bridegroom,
and it is my husband who begot me.
I am the mother of my father
and the sister of my husband
and he is my offspring.
I am the silence that is incomprehensible
and the idea whose remembrance is frequent.
I am the voice whose sound is manifold
and the word whose appearance is multiple.
I am the utterance of my name.
Why, you who hate me, do you love me,
and hate those who love me?
You who deny me, confess me,
and you who confess me, deny me.
You who tell the truth about me, lie about me,
and you who have lied about me, tell the truth about me.
You who know me, be ignorant of me,
and those who have not known me, let them know me.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
D Note love letter 2/16/12
D Base
Our friend Wendy Woo is playing Friday night with her friend Jeff Brinkman, starting at 7pm. We've been watching Wendy rock out for 15 years now! Cool to see the evolution from girl to woman (with 3 kids), not to mention the musical evolution. $10. After Wendy, at 10pm, is a blues rock reggae band called Thanks To Philo. $5.
Saturday at 4pm Music Train Family Concert Series presents The Heavy Cats for a special Mardi Gras edition. Heavy Cats features Lionel Young, one of our all time favorite people and musicians. Should be wildly entertaining. $7 adults/$3 kids.
Saturday at 7pm we have a benefit for Music International. Here's the scoop from their event page.
"Join us for an evening of friendship, fundraising, great food, and, of course, music! Music International was founded as a 501(c)3 organization in 2009 for the purpose of helping musicians outside the United States who are talented and passionate, but who lack the resources they need to fully pursue their passion. We have been able to provide guitars, strings, and teaching materials for musicians in Albania and India in our short history, and have received requests from musicians in Angola, Haiti, and more requests from Albania and India. This evening will feature the goods and services from various small businesses in the Denver metro area, great live music with the Barry Shapiro Band." $15 (includes one drink)
At 9:30pm on Saturday we have Zzyzzyx Band. Good old rock and roll. $5.
Sunday night we have the 9 year anniversary of our Salsa night! Going strong for 9 years, that's a lot of dancing. To commemorate this occasion there will be a salsa dance contest with a $500 prize! Come check out the amazing dancers. $8 (includes lesson and band).
Yours,
D ploy
Extra Credit: To celebrate 9 years of salsa at the D Note here is one of our favorite poems by one of our favorite poets, Elizabeth Bishop. The poem mentions the "dry perfectly off-beat claves" which can be heard in all salsa music.
The Bight
User Rating:
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(22 votes)
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At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
Our friend Wendy Woo is playing Friday night with her friend Jeff Brinkman, starting at 7pm. We've been watching Wendy rock out for 15 years now! Cool to see the evolution from girl to woman (with 3 kids), not to mention the musical evolution. $10. After Wendy, at 10pm, is a blues rock reggae band called Thanks To Philo. $5.
Saturday at 4pm Music Train Family Concert Series presents The Heavy Cats for a special Mardi Gras edition. Heavy Cats features Lionel Young, one of our all time favorite people and musicians. Should be wildly entertaining. $7 adults/$3 kids.
Saturday at 7pm we have a benefit for Music International. Here's the scoop from their event page.
"Join us for an evening of friendship, fundraising, great food, and, of course, music! Music International was founded as a 501(c)3 organization in 2009 for the purpose of helping musicians outside the United States who are talented and passionate, but who lack the resources they need to fully pursue their passion. We have been able to provide guitars, strings, and teaching materials for musicians in Albania and India in our short history, and have received requests from musicians in Angola, Haiti, and more requests from Albania and India. This evening will feature the goods and services from various small businesses in the Denver metro area, great live music with the Barry Shapiro Band." $15 (includes one drink)
At 9:30pm on Saturday we have Zzyzzyx Band. Good old rock and roll. $5.
Sunday night we have the 9 year anniversary of our Salsa night! Going strong for 9 years, that's a lot of dancing. To commemorate this occasion there will be a salsa dance contest with a $500 prize! Come check out the amazing dancers. $8 (includes lesson and band).
Yours,
D ploy
Extra Credit: To celebrate 9 years of salsa at the D Note here is one of our favorite poems by one of our favorite poets, Elizabeth Bishop. The poem mentions the "dry perfectly off-beat claves" which can be heard in all salsa music.
The Bight
User Rating:
5.9 /10
(22 votes)
0 Print friendly version
0 E-mail this poem to a friend
0 Send this poem as eCard
0 Add this poem to MyPoemList
Add this poet to MyPoetList Add this poet to MyPoetList
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
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