Upon the death of Loretta Lynn, I was reminded of a project I set out on many years ago to write dedicatory poems to great legends of Country/Western music. For those of you scratching your heads, country music was actually worth listening to from about 1944 to 1994. There are certainly many greats who have left us and, perhaps one day, there will be odes to George Jones, Merle Haggard, Patsy Cline, etc.
For now, there are three, Ms. Lynn's ode being the latest.
Ode to Loretta Lynn
Voice that pierced right through us—
Tongue as sharp as bluegrass.
You are as authentic as
My mother, grandmother.
My life has been a parade of
Women with your strength.
We need your strength right now.
But you nod and bristle
At my ode, my tribute, my memorial.
You scoff at our mythmaking.
You just did what you were going to do.
And you never needed anyone’s permission.
You put us in our place,
Demanded we not only hear but listen.
You were the one who unsettled
A form so content with complacency.
From beyond Butcher Holler or Hurricane Mills,
You will keep piercing, searching, haunting.
Until there’s nothing left here but the memory
Of music that meant something.
Ode to John Denver
When the people who we know and trust
Catalog the music that best defines who
We are as a country and as a people,
Yours will be at the pinnacle.
You are our
Earth's protector in song and spirit and
Embody the oft-forgotten Western in our
Country/Western music. When your
Name was first lumped with the names
Of our forebears, it was set fire to by
Those who called you soft, effeminate,
And derivative.
But, as long as people play music they
Love, yours will be there as clear and
Rushing as the streams you made us
See anew and the mountains you dared
Us to dream at, those which we saw
As an obstacle and you saw as a goal.
Ode to Tammy Wynette
When some radio station
Takes pity on us and
Plays us a blast from the past,
We tend to sing along-- it helps,
Reminds us that once many
Were lit by the pilot light
Of the old-style flames.
But, you don't sing with Tammy.
You simply sit, listen with open ears,
Open heart. You may cry your eyes out,
But you let the Queen sing. We don't
Dare usurp the throne.
Onstage, she was stiff as statues, but
Stiffer. One could blame no talent agents,
No singing coaches, less management.
I blame a voice so goddess-like, so
Angelic, and glorious that the faulty
Human body froze up in the godly
Grace of tuneful vocal chimes--
Delicate, fragile-- glass and polish.
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