I find my old Doc Watson record
Who would believe
a plain black disk could hold
such Shady Grove secrets
or a needle
on the end of a robot arm
from a spiral of ridges
guitars, banjoes, fiddles
reeling around the room
and a mountain man
who fills the house
for the lapse of his lady?
© 2012 by Violet Nesdoly
I have been involved, over the past few months, in co-editing a poetry anthology for a local poetry society of which I’m a member. This has been an educational and enjoyable experience.
In the book we’re featuring the poems of our oldest member who will be turning 100 this November. In addition to his poems, we have a section of tribute poems and member poems.
Our almost-centenarian poet Thurlow Gowan was an avid square dancer for years. He also played numerous musical instruments. Two years ago he, along with two other male members of our club, published an anthology. The photo is of him playing his banjo at the the launch of that book, A Trail of Light.
Because I know of his love for music, one of the poems I submitted for my section of our in-progress collection is today’s poem, “I find my old Doc Watson record.” It came out of an experience a year or two ago, when my sister got a mandolin and was jamming along with any playable tunes she could find. I searched for and found my old Doc Watson record (yes it is vinyl), played it that night, and the poem is one of the results. (The blind guitar player Doc Watson died at the end of May this year. He was 89.)
This poem is submitted to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by Jone at Check it Out.