About a month ago, Lucinda Williams came in town to visit her father, Miller Williams, poet, writer and former professor at the University of Arkansas for 33 years. Although she's not on tour, she agreed to play a show at George's, sort of last minute. It sold out in no time and because it did, they added a second show the next night, which is the one I went to. It was an historic show. Miller opened the night with a reading of the poem he wrote for Lucinda, "The Caterpillar", which she as a little girl, unknowingly gave the last line. I adore it. Have a read:The Caterpillar
Today on the lip of a bowl in the backyard
we watched a caterpillar caught in the circle
of his larval assumptions
My daughter counted
half a dozen times he went around
before rolling back and laughing
I'm a caterpillar, look
she left him
measuring out his slow green way to some place
there must have been a picture of inside him
After supper
coming from putting the car up
we stopped to look
figured he crossed the yard
once every hour
and left him
when we went to bed
wrinkling no closer to my landlord's leaves
than when he somehow fell into his private circle
Later I followed
barefeet and doorclicks of my daughter
to the yard the bowl
a milkwhite moonlight eye
in the black grass
it died
I said honey they don't live very long
In bed again
re-covered and re-kissed
she locked her arms and mumbling love to mine
until yawning she slipped
into the deep bone-bottomed dish of sleep
Stumbling drunk around the rim
I hold
the words she said to me across the dark
I think he thought he was
going in a straight line
Today on the lip of a bowl in the backyard
we watched a caterpillar caught in the circle
of his larval assumptions
My daughter counted
half a dozen times he went around
before rolling back and laughing
I'm a caterpillar, look
she left him
measuring out his slow green way to some place
there must have been a picture of inside him
After supper
coming from putting the car up
we stopped to look
figured he crossed the yard
once every hour
and left him
when we went to bed
wrinkling no closer to my landlord's leaves
than when he somehow fell into his private circle
Later I followed
barefeet and doorclicks of my daughter
to the yard the bowl
a milkwhite moonlight eye
in the black grass
it died
I said honey they don't live very long
In bed again
re-covered and re-kissed
she locked her arms and mumbling love to mine
until yawning she slipped
into the deep bone-bottomed dish of sleep
Stumbling drunk around the rim
I hold
the words she said to me across the dark
I think he thought he was
going in a straight line
And after he read that, Lucinda took the stage. At one point toward the end of the show, a train came right through town and with its disturbingly loud ruck and whistle, stopped Lucinda dead in her tracks, mid-song. We all had to stop because we couldn't hear a thing. After it passed, not at all ruffled at the disruption, she said, "My God. That might be the coolest thing that's ever happened to me."
Here is Lucinda that hot September night, telling a story about her father and Hank Williams and then singing Hank's song, "Cold Cold Heart":
Here is Lucinda that hot September night, telling a story about her father and Hank Williams and then singing Hank's song, "Cold Cold Heart":
1 comment:
I can't believe you got to see Lucinda. I was just in West Memphis to find my joy, and every time I go there, I'm so glad she gave me a song to sing while I do it. I love her.
Miller doesn't know me from Adam's house cat, but he was my teacher, and I remember parts of it, and those parts are really good.
That's about all the cool I've got right there.
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