Poet Charles Plymell hung out with the original Beats back in the day. His 2004 volume, Some Mothers' Sons (Cherry Valley Editions, 2004; ISBN 0-916156-93-1), includes the poem to Grant Hart reprinted below. Allen Ginsberg's old "Committee on Poetry" farmhouse in Cherry Valley NY, now abandoned, was the site of the 1998 Cherry Valley Arts Festival at which Grant performed and at which this photo of Grant, Charles Plymell and Ray Bremser was taken.
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How would the old homestead ever know who would occupy its future centuries Oh the maple farmer and his sleigh Oh the band and his harmonium a cord of wood, a wicker rocker a wolf-lipped greybeard poet then the punk rock balladeer singing to the poets past the songs that make you think St. Paul kid named after the 5 & dime Faces sunshine under the old porch roof that never falls, just leans, though many snows have blown upon its brim like a dream of a do-rag. Where possum and mouse and cat lived many lives with uncounted ants through the centuries' hut entities, pot-honored, warmed the inner flesh near snuggled old house basking winsome burdened wine blues space bartered etched smoke from woodstove fire. Grant, Ray, Janine and I now look into the hills like we came to the carnival of 'round ladle rat rotten huts as the centuries fall down on us, but the porch roof stays wetter than last year's Mallard orphans swimming in the pond. Cats scratch and dogs bark, and ticks battle lids under naked eyes of the moon's inner florist above yonder sorghum stenches memories stick resplendent on the Burdock cockles velcro and no schedules are made for road gigs met just in time for the singing and playing and music's arms raised to the tune of the brooding century's bottle of beer.
© 2004 Charles Plymell
| Reprinted with permission |
(Thanks to Charles Plymell, Elizabeth Plymell and Cherry Valley Editions.)