Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Poet's Corner: Thomas R. Smith

Ode to the Vinyl Record

by Thomas R. Smith (all emphasis is mine)

The needle lowers into the groove
and I'm home. It could be any record
I've lived with and loved a long time: Springsteen
or Rodrigo, Ray Charles or Emmylou
Harris: Not only the music, but
the whirlpool shimmering on the turntable

funneling blackly down into the ocean
of the ear
—even the background
pops and hisses a worn record
wraps the music in creaturely
imperfections so hospitable to our own.
Since those first Beatles and Stones LPs
plopped down spindles on record players
we opened like tiny suitcases at sweaty
junior high parties while parents were out
how many nights I've pulled around 
my desires a vinyl record's cloak
of flaws and found it a perfect fit,
the crackling unclarity and turbulence
of the country's lo-fi basement heart
madly spinning, making its big dark sound.

That’s pretty good. There’s almost a dash of Kerouac in the rhythm of some of the lines, especially the last couple, that really does it for me. You can really hear the crackle and hiss, and see the glassy threads turning.

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