More Than Forty Years

Someone posted a Tony Hoagland
poem from his first book, Sweet
Ruin, online today, saying she never
loved his newer ones nearly as much.
I nodded, thought about all the late
night, French fry Diner conversations
about musicians that blew me away
when they first found my ears. A few,
like The Rascals, the first band I called
mine, turned me into a die-hard fan
loving every album they put out.
I followed others for years trying
to maintain a kind of magical
connection only to find their stuff
started sounding too similar, formulas
that quickly bored me. Some artists
watered down their sound to chase
a hit by polishing it with slick tinny
production, think J Geils, Centerfold,
Love Stinks. Occasionally groups
moved from folk or rock to jazz,
told themselves they were making
better, more sophisticated music
and ended up losing their way. Some
pretended to be happy being one hit
wonders at oldies shows. Of course,
there are the rare talents I genuflect,
bow my head to: Dylan, Springsteen,
Brian Wilson releasing material
throughout lifetime-long careers,
periodically reminding me why
I fell in love with music, how
wonderful it felt. Earlier today
I ordered Josh Ritter’s, James
McMurtry’s and Neko Case’s new
albums, and tonight I’m sitting
at my desk writing. Ahmad Jamal,
Sonny Rollins, Thelonious Monk
are playing in the background,
their gliding melodies moving
around, grooving through me.
No words to snag in my thoughts,
tempt me to sing along. More
than forty years and I’m still
putting words down on paper.