Blue Funk

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I’ve not been there lately,

but I remember the saxophone notes

so lowdown they sounded like a dog scratching

at an unpainted back door, and the ache of everything

as if everything had been put in package crates

or covered with tarps.  Blue, blue, my world is blue,

L’amour est bleu.  Blue indigo.  Blues in the night. In Blue Funk,

Missouri or Kentucky or Tennessee or West Virginia,

nothing grows but scrub brush.  Halfway up a hillside,

there’s a shack and a porch with rocking chairs

no one’s sat in for years.  Nothing in the well

but a dreadful brown slush

covered with leaves.  And then you start laughing,

a rueful laugh, it’s so absurd—low spirits

flying through the ash and river birch and sourwood,

and the skin turning blue, the growl

of a man with huge shoulders turning around

to face you, to ask you what the freakin’ hell,

in the midst of life we are in death,

in your self-serving grief,

in your blue funk,

you, grieving man, want now.


-Dick Allen

Connotation Press

Categories: Poems & PhotosTags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

1 comment

  1. Just awesome art!


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