- Irving Toast, Poetry Ghost - 20090222 - Wandering Poets - pt 1

Watt, Graeser and Larson, Part One on Irving Toast, Poetry Ghost, Sun 10:30am/Mon 1:30pm central

  Watt, Graeser, Larson... Larson, Graeser, Watt... Graeser, Larson, Watt... Looking for something that chimed like Emerson, Lake & Palmer, I came up with The Wandering Philosopher Poets of the Long Shadow. Recorded live and in concert at the MUM Library on a cold February eve, this show will warm your innards like a slurp of Oh-Be-Joyful and make you dance around the campfire clapping your loose shoe soles to the rhythm and blues of the undying heavens above. Whom do you love, Lonesome Dove? Let's give the rocks a shove and park our carcasses for some howling good poetry. And oh, this is just Part One. Part two to be aired at a later date. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehawwwwwwww!


Here's a poem to help get you through:

 

 

His life. His music. His tomb of days and weeks.

He wore his father’s circuitry; Franz felt deeply saddened;

he had tried so hard to please his father

in his head.

 

Today, no gulls jockeying above the river bend, no damaged Soviet
satellites, no collapsing orbit,

micro-antenna concealed in black eyeglasses.

 

But an eagle. Strength against the toothy planets, the rose bush

or sadness or light of the blue poplars,

and a red squirrel licks the snow under his car.

 

Unhappy in his work, transmitting thoughts of his unknown self

parallel the aroma of stale coffee, the dregs,

he filled his mind with music

 

and locked himself in his attic, a dim landscape, trembling green.
Awaken the body,

the cool stars mark the skin, burning August

creating one masterpiece after another.

 

 

He read Goethe and Barry Goldwater and the red enameled pin

awarding RCA serviceman of 1960. Then,

excitedly, soiled himself.

 

Rilke said, anticipating fall, brown and gold monarchs’ flutter,

self-inflicted wounds being silent, the baby monster,

“I live my life in expanding orbits.”

 

Schubert said, unveiling the new synapses

withering, killing and resurrecting,

“Even a river gives itself the benefit of a doubt.”

 

Iced over, the river still on a whim, soldering gun smoking, “O
sacred heart,

my joy and inspiration...” he put to music

like

a disintegrator ray, at peace with what he had to do.

He had some options.

And later, “The Trout Quintet,”

famous the world over.