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Image for the poem Freewheelin'

Freewheelin'

Somehow he heard it deeper and it echoed in the well of who he was -- a primal groan of old sadness, a harmonica sweet like a gone lover's scent on a cool pillow or a black and white image blurred of them on wooden steps; Mattie, Bae-bae, and Marvaline, their fine young legs crossed high and a Studebaker in the gravel drive. There is John's or Jimmy's old guitar leaning by the porch swing and something of Patsy's Crazy and Hank's Honky Tonkin' and Elvis and Mama hanging sheets in the heated breeze of lonesome summers and songs that stab at some hard scrabble truth too big to say or even know in tender phrases groaned or growled or howled or yodeled and I still can't communicate what exactly, but I knew it when I heard it.
javalini
Written by javalini
Published
Author's Note
I wrote the gist of this a few months ago. The challenge was to write about music that I love. I liked parts of it enough to use them as my DUP introduction. I listened to some of this album a few...
I wrote the gist of this a few months ago. The challenge was to write about music that I love. I liked parts of it enough to use them as my DUP introduction. I listened to some of this album a few days ago. It still grabs me like it did when I was fourteen. The young Bob Dylan is amazing.
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