Issa's Sunday Service, #190: Sufjan Stevens, O'Connor, Springsteen, and Robert Bly

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There have been any number of songs with the title "A Good Man is Hard to Find," many that have no association with the writer, Flannery O'Connor.

Sufjan Stevens's version is definitely not one of them:
  

A Good Man is Hard to Find

Once in the backyard
She was once like me, she was once like me
Twice when I killed them
They were once at peace, 
they were once like me

Hold to your gun, man 
and put off all your peace
Put off all the beast
Paid a full of these, I wait for it, 
but someone's once like me
She was once like me

I once was better
I put off all my grief, I put off all my grief
And so I go to hell, I wait for it
But someone's left me creased 
and someone's left me creased

Bruce Springsteen has also expressed great admiration for the writer Flannery O'Connor, who was just last week referenced in a William Stafford poem. For all the details of the Springsteen connection, check out this article at Dappled Things entitled "Naming Sin: Flannery O'Connor's Mark on Bruce Springsteen." 

Here's the Boss with a live rendition of "A Good Man is Hard to Find," performed right here in Pittsburgh


A Good Man Is Hard to Find  (Pittsburgh)

It's cloudy out in Pittsburgh, it's raining in Saigon
Snow's fallin' all across the Michigan line
Well she sits by the lights of her Christmas tree
With the radio softly on
Thinkin' how a good man is so hard to find

Well once she had a fella
Once she was somebody's girl
And she gave all she had that one last time
Now there's a little girl asleep in the back room
She's gonna have to tell about the meanness in this world
And how a good man is so hard to find

Well there's pictures on the table by her bed
Him in his dress greens and her in her wedding white
She remembers how the world was the day he left
And now how that world is dead
And a good man is so hard to find

She ain't got no time now for Casanovas
Yeah those days are gone
She don't want that anymore, she's made up her mind
Just somebody to hold her as the night gets on
When a good man is so hard to find

Well she shuts off the TV and without a word
And into bed she climbs
Well she thinks how it was all so wasted
And how expendable their dreams all were
When a good man was so hard to find

Well it's cloudy out in Pittsburgh


As you may have noticed, the song has a sub or alternate title: "Pittsburgh." It seems that, beyond the title and its appearance as a line in the song, there is little here that relates to O'Connor except perhaps tone. At a Springsteen lyrics site (Lebanese!), Bruce is quoted about the song and he mentions the first time he met Ron Kovic, the author of "Born on the Fourth of July." 

If you haven't read the original, it's here - for how long, who knows.

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I ran across this Robert Bly poem this morning in his collection Talking into the Ear of a Donkey - this is my 3rd or 4th time reading the book over the last 3 years or so and it just gets better and better. 

At first there didn't seem to be a connection to the above song, then I started to think more closely about the original story and it seems my mind is, as usual, making connections that on surface I'm not immediately aware.

It's life and life only:

Keeping Quiet

A friend of mine says that every war
Is some violence in childhood coming closer.
Those whoppings in the shed weren't a joke.
On the whole, it didn't turn out well.

This has been going on for thousands
Of years! It doesn't change.  Something
Happened to me, and I can't tell
Anyone, so it will happen to you.

Robert Bly

Photo by Danny Hammontree via fotor

----------------

swatting a fly
but hitting
the Buddha

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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It's Hard to Be a Saint in the City: Issa's Sunday Service, #175

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Early in his career, Bruce Springsteen drew the inevitable comparisons to Bob Dylan and probably rightly so. This is one of those songs that prompted the comparison and, whether it is truly warranted, there you go. 

The lyrics are a bit too cumbersome (in line length, not execution or clarity) to include in this format, so here's a link if you are interested. References to Casanova and the Prince of the Pauper are what brings the song to the Sunday Service.

The live version that follows can only be described as incendiary (he dedicates the song to Pete - that's Mr. Townshend who was in the audience that night back in '75 at the Hammersmith Odeon) and the pedal is all the way to the metal, with the dual guitar solo that wraps it simply killer. 

You were warned.

-----

Photo by mylittlefinger

world of Buddha's law--
the snake strips
his clothes

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

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Lillie poem archive

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Go to the LitRock web site for a list of all 175 songs

Jungleland: Issa's Sunday Service, #66

Asbury Park

Outside the streets on fire in a real death waltz

Between what's flesh and what's fantasy 

  and the poets down here 

Don't write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be.

And in the quick of the night they reach for their moment

And try to make an honest stand but they wind up wounded,

  not even dead,

Tonight in Jungleland.

Something of an epic, part of which was used as an epigraph for Stephen King's monumental post-apocalyptic novel, The Stand (the title of which comes from a line above), in its final verses Bruce Springsteen's Jungleland almost seems to transcend the medium itself.  Something I never noticed before is the tip o' the hat to F. Scott Fitzgerald with a line in the previous verse

Beneath the city two hearts beat,
Soul engines running through a night so tender

Anytime a night is described as tender, the lyrical Fitzgerald is recalled. Without getting too carried away, the debt to Dylan is fairly obvious.  What might be less obvious is what I perceive as a Yeats feel.  Maybe it's just me; still, the naming of the characters in this narrative certainly recalls Yeats's Crazy Jane, who was directly referenced in Springsteen's earlier minor epic, Spirit in the Night.  

Then there are these lines from Jungleland:

Man there's an opera out on the turnpike,
There's a ballet being fought out in the alley

For this edition of the Sunday Service, I'll leave it with this great live performance of Jungleland from a 2009 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame show.

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Featured from the archive this week is a poem I believe may have appeared on Facebook and the Twitter feed but not here.  A monostitch in 7 mere words, it opens up worlds:

     childhood:        train track leading into the forest

        M. Kettner

completing
the green mountain
a pheasant cries

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don


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PPS Don't miss a transcendent performance by Skip James over at Miss Late July.  I'm thinking Nick Cave should cover this one. 

Adam Raised a Cain: Issa's Sunday Service, #30

Today is the birthday of Steven (Little Steven) Van Zandt, guitar player in Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band, which gives me the opportunity to delve into the deep cut side of things in the Bruce catalog. This song comes from Darkness on the Edge of Town and isn't something you hear everyday, possibly because of its execution, possibly because free form radio is virtually dead, possibly because of its thematic similarity to other cuts from the band: fathers and sons, empty rooms, biblical resonance, shattered dreams, sin, redemption, and love gone bad. Image-wise, water, blood, and cars are never far from any song by the Boss. Yet, when isolated and listened to, this song perfectly encapsulates so many of Springsteen's works. For my money, the live version below is head over heels better than the original album cut, which in this case simply serves as a template for live performances.

The allusion to the Biblical story serves as its primary reason for inclusion as LitRock at Issa's Sunday Service but, as is often the case with Springsteen, he sneaks something else in to: the reference to East of Eden, the Steinbeck novel which took its name from the Cain's expulsion to the Land of Nod (no giggling here).



Adam Raised a Cain

In the summer that I was baptized
my father held me to his side
As they put me to the water
he said how on that day I cried
We were prisoners of love, a love in chains
He was standin' in the door I was standin' in the rain
With the same hot blood burning in our veins
Adam raised a Cain

All of the old faces
ask you why you're back
They fit you with position
and the keys to your daddy's Cadillac
In the darkness of your room
your mother calls you by your true name
You remember the faces, the places, the names
You know it's never over it's relentless as the rain
Adam Raised a Cain

In the Bible Cain slew Abel
and East of Eden he was cast
You're born into this life paying
for the sins of somebody else's past
Daddy worked his whole life for nothing but the pain
Now he walks these empty rooms looking for something to blame
You inherit the sins, you inherit the flames
Adam raised a Cain

Lost but not forgotten, from the dark heart of a dream
Adam raised a Cain

Happy birthday to Little Steven and if you are a fan of garage rock, the link above at his name will take you somewhere where you can get lost for weeks.

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This week's featured poem comes from Lilliput Review #46, June 1993. #46 is a broadside issue, still available via Lillie, and as a special treat for Albert Huffstickler fans (excuse me, no pushing, that's right, I'm first in line), here is Twilight On Trinity in its entirety.

Twilight On Trinity

Sitting at an upstairs window
watching the rain fall
on Trinity Street,
it’s early yet
but the air
has an evening
feel to it--
as though the day
had decided
to blow everything
off and huddle
in the shelter
of an awning
out of the rush.

I would have written
but I’ve written you
twice and you haven’t
answered and after I
write to you, I
start talking to you
in my head and that’s
not too good a thing
after so long--I
mean it’s better not
to write too much.
It’s better just to
wait for an answer.

But the rain--
have you noticed
how it changes
personality from
one visit to another?
This rain is a woman
waiting for someone,
very gentle,
so very gentle,
not even sad.

I mean,
I could say to you
after all these years
that it doesn’t matter,
that I’m ‘‘over you ‘‘--
whatever that means.
I could say that
you’re less of a
presence in my space
but it wouldn’t be
true. The truth is--
well, I don’t know
what the truth is.

But I wouldn’t be
talking to you if
some part of you
weren’t still here.
I think the rain
is some kind of
conductor. It
links all those
it falls on.
Now tell me
you haven’t thought
the same thing
sometime.

And the rain that
falls on Trinity Street,
that borderland between
the affluent and the
fallen--that rain
is absolutely necessary.

But if I knew
it was raining
where you are,
then I might
write you anyway
because then, you
see, it wouldn’t
matter
who owed who
a letter.

But of course
I don’t know
just how it is
this moment
where you are
and now after
all these years
I have to confess
I’m not inclined
to take chances.

So what I’ll do is:
I’ll sit by this
upstairs window
on Trinity Street,
watching the rain,
thinking about
the letter I’d write
if I were going
to write while
down below
on this borderland street
the named and the nameless
walk side by side
in the slow fall.


Albert Huffstickler

Chicago House
607 Trinity
Austin, TX
May 15, 1992

Over the years, I published 5 broadside issues of Albert's work and have to say that this one was his personal favorite. He loved it when I printed it in a variety of colors and asked me to surprise him on the occasions when he asked for more copies.

I do miss him, all these years later.

***************************************

To sum it all up, here's the master:

all night looking
at my wrinkled hands...
autumn rain

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Wendell Berry, Madam Marie, and the Summarize Monsieur Proust in Two Words (Or Less) Contest

Cover art by Oberc

A couple of interesting tidbits, if not poetic than certainly lyrical. First a very powerful interview with Wendell Berry in The Sun should be required reading for everyone. It's long and it's worth it. Second, sad news in the cultural icon department, as reported by the Asbury Park Press: Madam Marie has passed away at the age of 93. Here's a note by Bruce from his homepage:

Back in the day when I was a fixture on the Asbury Park boardwalk, I'd often stop and talk to Madam Marie as she sat on her folding chair outside the Temple of Knowledge.

I'd sit across from her on the metal guard rail bordering the beach, and watched as she led the day trippers into the small back room where she would unlock a few of the mysteries of their future. She always told me mine looked pretty good - she was right. The world has lost enough mystery as it is - we need our fortunetellers. We send our condolences out to her family who've carried on her tradition. Over here on E Street, we will miss her.

--Bruce Springsteen

As someone who did plenty of time in Asbury Park and saw many a so-called renaissance of the town come and go, the death of Madam Marie, her passing, resonants in many ways.

Today is the birthday of someone who, after many years, has become my favorite writer: Marcel Proust. In homage to Monty Python's The All-England Summarize Proust Competition, the website TEMPSPERDU.COM has a webpage of two, three, four, five etc. word summaries of Proust (all 3,000 plus pages) submitted by visitors to their site. Cliff's Notes could learn a thing or two about summarizing from these folks. I particularly love the two word summaries and can't decide which is my favorite: "Goodnight Mama", "Mmmm ... cookies", "Society sucks", or "Time flies."

Contributor copies of the new issues of Lilliput Review, #'s 163 and 164, went out this week. I will begin working on the subscription run this weekend. Typically, with poetry to read and letters to write, it takes me 6 or so weeks to get the full run out. Such is the life of a small press editor. #163 features poems by:

Yosano Akiko (Dennis Maloney translations), John Martone, Marcia Arrieta, Ed Baker, Hosho McCreesh, Bart Solarczyk, Paul Hostovsky, Kevin Richard Jones, Constance Campbell, Greg Watson, George Gott, Jeffrey Skeate, Alan Holder, Kelley Jean White, Mary Rooney, Lâle Müldür (translated by Donny Smith), Mike Dillon, Joseph Farley, Shey Galib (translated by Donny Smith), and Diane di Prima. Artwork is by John Harter, Edward O'Durr Supranowicz, and Guy Beining.

If anyone has contact info on Edward O'Durr Supranowicz, I could use it to get him his contributor copies. I don't have an address for him.

In #164, poems are by: Diane di Prima, John Martone, Greg Watson, Charlie Mehrhoff, Janet Baker, Paul Hostovsky, LeRoy Gorman, Hosho McCreesh, David Gross, Charles Nevsimal, Hugh Hennedy, Kelley Jean White, Ruben T. Abeyta, Wayne Hogan (also responsible for the artwork), M. Kei, David Lindley, Judy Swann, Mark J. Mitchell, Jacquelyn Bowen Aly, M. Kettner, Marcelle H. Kasprowicz, David Chorlton, Jessica Harman, Bart Galle, and Michael Wurster.

This week's back issue feature from the Lillie archive is #81 from August 1996 (who remembers that a former NFL quarterback was nominated by the Republicans for vice-president?). Here are a couple of samples:

Love in the Warm Sweet Air of Springtime

Sheets loosen
fall to the floor
the lamps tip
magazines slip
everything is touched
everything is moved.

Janell Moon

oh touch me you fool

and for all he's worth
his fingers fall like
pale leaves into the
wet autumn of spring

Angel D. Zapata

typical male

here I am
getting that
hackneyed
dog shit
creeping out
from under the snow
poem
out of my system

Matt Welter

And, you know, sometimes there is the beauty of serendipity or, as Jung would have it, synchronicity. I literally came across the following two poems in this issue after I'd written the above. The first is a nod to the Madam, RIP, the second needs no explanation beyond the fact that it was a "Brobdingnag Feature Poem," an occasional feature wherein the poet is permitted to go beyond the usual 10 line limit. Enjoy.

Columbus Avenue

Sidewalk slick with rain,
the fortune teller's daughter
sits barefoot in a doorway,
her painted toes curl in moist air.
The florist flirts, sells me white flowers,
casablanca lilies, he likes saying.
A street singer cries through this thick air,
he beats good rhythm on his thighs
and I give him money, of course I do.

Lonnie Hull Dupont

Proust

He wrote and
rewrote the
last of Remembrance
in bed, taped
changes on
to changes, some
paper accordion
folded out
across the
room with penned
corrections.
He died days later,
the manuscripts
still near the
bed like a
ticking watch on
the wrist of
a dead soldier.

Lyn Lifshin

Oh, I can't end that way, that's too many lines:

the fate of the tang dynasty

ink died
sparrow lives

W. B. Keckler

That's better.

best,
Don

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