I Digress(ed).../A Fast Running Train Whistles Down

Last time, I started down a vein that I'm not too keen on continuing. As much as I feel the necessity of people speaking out in social commentary, I don't want this to turn into some kind of soap box or analogous medium of opinion flaunting.

 I am, however, continuing along the track of Woody Guthrie. I recently finished his autobiography "Bound for Glory" which, if I have not said already, should be on your list of things to read before you complete your brief stay here at hotel Life. In his book, there is a chapter entitled "A Fast Running Train Whistles Down" about an incident where his mother, who unfortunately suffers from mental health problems, sets fire to their home and is then sent off to a mental institution on a "fast running train whistling down". As a tribute to him, I took this idea and turned it into a villanelle.
 The villanelle is a poetic form of 19 lines that incorporates the repetition of the first and third line as the closing of each subsequent stanza with the final being four lines, the last two of which are the first and third lines of the peom. It was originally an Italian form, however, one of the most famous examples is Dylan Thomas's (from whom Robert Zimmerman took the name Bob Dylan) "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night". The one that I wrote takes its name from the chapter in "Bound for Glory".

A Fast Running Train Whistles Down
 -For Woody

 A fast running train whistles down.
The sun glows out complacently.
Away somewhere we heard the howl.

The hollow shell burned to the ground,
The twisting wreck of hopeless dreams;
A fast running train whistles down.

Everywhere I can hear the sound;
The flames come creeping up on me.
From somewhere I can hear them howl:

The demons bathing underground,
Roiling blood-lust of Satan's fiends.
The train of hell is whisl'ng down.

 I hear the echo fading out;
We all forget your mockery-
So far away the fading howl

Reaches the mind's unfading scowl;
The wind destroys our constancy.
A fast running train whistles down,
Our tear-stained eyes can hear its howl.

 -Y.M. Potter

An Age Old Trade

I apologize for the extended delay.  There just wasn't much to write about.  I suppose I should give you a run down of the "new" things.  There's a link to my sister's blog, "Fighting Entropy", it's good. Really good.  I will probably reference it on occasion, so you should read it.  Also, there's a link to this blog's Facebook page, if you have one of those.  Since I do not, the page is just kind of there, nothing special happens on it.

I have nothing to say.  I really don't, I've tried again and again to craft something unique or special or even coherent and I have failed.  It's turned into some pathetic mewling about such and such a cliche topic.  Every time.  Odds are that I will erase this post before I finish and never even publish it, though I don't know why I am telling you since you wouldn't read this sentence.  You wouldn't read this one.  Or this.  Still, there must be something within me that is worth bringing to light.

I've never been one for "social protest".  I always admired those who did:  Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger or pretty much any of the old folk singers.  But it wasn't for me.  I didn't even think there were problems here in Small Town, America.  Lately, however, looking around, I've seen and heard a lot of things that are quite disturbing.  Moreover no one is saying anything about it.  All the great protest singers are either dead or have moved on to bigger and better "Tempests".  What we're left with is a bunch of performers that are feeding the problem instead of saying anything about it.  Where is the sharp wit of social satire?  Where is the nasally, twanging voice that is not afraid to illuminate the obvious problem?  And where are people that would listen?

In Woody Guthrie's autobiography, "Bound for Glory", he says that he made up songs telling what I thought was wrong and how to make it right, songs that said what everybody in the country was thinking. And this has held me ever since." Apparently, all the country thinks about now is partying, drinking and living as irresponsibly and foolishly as humanly possible.

-Y.M. Potter