I’m still in such awe of this poem that I don’t really know what to say about it yet. The magic of it has not yet given way to insight. The funny thing is, I always seem to “forget” about this poem until I read it again. However, I’d probably say this is one of my absolute favorite poems. Every time I read it, it still fills me up like a big good meal. A beautiful, beautiful, beautiful thing from the late James Wright. Enjoy.

- - -

A Blessing

Just off the Highway to Rochester, Minnesota
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

I’m not a religious guy, but I am aware of, and prone to, spiritual moments. Let it be said, I’m also prone to exaggeration. With that said, I continue: Sounds, voices, the faces of friends in the right light, certain words and certain phrases, the endings of certain books and poems. When anything is given enough of the right kind of attention it becomes art, and above all, art is spiritual. Art is a bit like the whole Catholic thing with the bread and the wine; paint and pixels and phrases become more than what they are.

Like Catholic bread or a bunch of words on a page, on one level Neko Case’s work is just what it is: simple country songs. Similarly, her live show, which I saw for the first time last night, is mostly quiet but fun, punctuated by jokes from Neko or her backup singer Kelly Hogan, or lamentations about the mass of red-orange hair she must keep moving around so it doesn’t grab her face “like an orangutan.” She sang and played guitar confidently, and Jon Rauhouse’s band picked away on some excellent country tunes, mostly of Neko’s writing (with the exception of a blissful version of “Buckets of Rain”).

And yet, that voice. That voice carries me somewhere very wonderful. At times it seems so thick and low you could grab it out if the air, and then it becomes like a set of roofbeams, high, strong, and untouchable. A hint of country twang keeps it human - you still feel that you can relate to it, unlike so many opera arias. There is a certain throaty push in her voice that makes me see the color orange - maybe it’s just picturing her singing, but I do see this color in her voice. She elevates what would otherwise be normal country songs - albeit vivid and rather poetic country songs - to something so much more. I wish I had better words to say what I’m thinking, but I can’t find them.

I know I’m getting a bit carried away here. Sorry. I warned you about the exaggertaion. I don’t know what it is, why it is, but the voice of Neko Case is spiritual in a way that, for me at least, is unmatched by any other singing voice. The art of it makes me weak and humble. So going to that concert last night, well, I felt a bit like I was at church. Thanks for that, Neko.

Some Neko Case songs for your listening pleasure. One folder with four songs: “A Widow’s Toast,” (which opened the concert), “Porchlight,” “Maybe Sparrow,” and her cover of Dylan’s “Buckets of Rain.”

I was reading Kat’s blog earlier and amongst some other nice (and rather poetic) observations, she mentioned going with Erik, her boyfriend, to the tidepools with a couple of sandwiches. So I got to thinking about sandwiches. The poetry of sandwiches. The word “sandwich” itself is a real - forgive me - mouthful. It requires a lot of lip-smacking and tongue movement. “Sandwich” seems to get your mouth moving and your appetite revved up.

The sandwich is a major food technology. Think about it. Is there no more perfect way to get food into your mouth as a sandwich? First, you’ve got the bread. For many, bread is just the sandwich receptacle, the medium for the food. But done right, the bread is nearly a meal itself - think thick sourdough, meaty Germanic pumpernickel (another word loaded with poetry). And within those two slices of goodness, the potential is limitless. The basic American sandwich is highly satisfying: ham/turkey/roast beef, cheese, mayo, lettuce, tomato, pickles. But wait. Maybe corned beef? Pastrami? Both? Pepperjack, aged gouda? Spinach, baby greens, sauerkraut, sundried tomatoes? Dill, sweet a wedge on the side? Toasted bread and some chunks of avocado and other veggies? Onions (red, white, yellow, sweet)? And we’re still inside the box here. How about tuna salad, egg salad, grilled cheese, PB&J, triple-decker club? And even…the ice cream sandwich.

What I’m saying is, the sandwich is an infinite contraption, suitable for any meal, any time of day. And there’s nothing a poet loves so much as something infinite. And not only is the sandwich infinite, it’s satisfying as hell. Munching through layers of food, crusty bread crusts - few forms of eating feel this good. In poetry, finding something that is both infinite and satisfying is rare indeed, and worthy of praise. Who’s hungry?