Traynor's - A Poem

Traynor's
On a Saturday night.
A world of the real,
The half-real,
The sham,
The sincere.
Those searching,
And those who think
They have found
What they were
Searching for,
And the silent ones
Who say and express
Nothing.

The silent ritual
Of listening.

I know them all
I think-
To a certain degree
Anyway.

Martin comes form Sussex,
Part of England.
I have known him,
What?
Maybe three years.
Seems longer.

His beard and hair
Are a little shorter now.
His playing and singing
More forceful,
More direct.
I think that now
He not only sings
For those sitting
In the dim light,
But people on the street
Can hear him.
His wonderful, natural
Sense of humour
Comes across to people.
I hope so
Anyway.
I like him singing the songs
Of his homeland.
Or are the songs
Of this country
Those of his homeland?

I'll sit and listen
To him sing
Another song,
And drink
Another cup of coffee

What's he saying?
Said the young man.
He's Irish,
Said the young girl.
A good bloke,
I thought.

Tall,
Easy going
Brian.
It seems
He inherited
Some Irish charm.

He is easily spoken,
Easily spoken to.

The quiet air
Of melancholy,
And the beauty
That is Irish music.

I think
An air of defiance
When singing
'O'Donnel Aboo',
With a stamp of the foot.

The shores of Erin
Are close
Tonight,
And the smoky air
Is filled with an emerald hue.

Erin go brath.

The tall young man
With the red beard
Is Trevor Lucas.

I first heard him
A few years back.
Could have been
At the Reata.
I can't remember.

He was singing the blues,
Just sort of starting
Then.
And now he's still singing them.
And I think maybe he's found himself
In the blues.

The blues can be all things
To all men,
And Trevor
Is singing them quietly,
Or with the bass surge
Of the twelve string.

He's singing other songs
Too,
Building a style.

Who's got the right to sing the blues?
Asked one man.
Everyman,
If he feels them,
I thought.

I've been singing with Garry
For about a year now.

First met him
At Emerald Hill
One Sunday afternoon.

A slightly built fellow
With a tenor voice.
Some nice picking
On the guitar.

Seemed a fairly serious
Sort of bloke.

We've worked out
A few songs
Together,
In some loose way.
Mostly improvised,
Ad lb
I think they call it.

You get different impressions
Of a person singing with them,
Being closer.
Probably a lot of people
Miss the subtleness.
Garry is a fairly soft singer
And the subtleness is part of
Folk music.

He's blowing his harmonica
Stronger now,
Singing Bob Dylan's songs
Well.
Maybe starting to find his own voice.

But best of all
He's starting to write
His own songs.
Some good stuff
Will come before long
If he keeps going.
He has a good poetic feeling.

A rebel?
Could be.
It seems to be a misused word
Nowadays.
Probably just feels
He has to say something.

A lot of people are feeling
Like that,
Getting rid of frustrations,
Writing down their feelings
About the world,
The good and the bad.

'Hattie Carrol'
Is good.
It disturbs me
Deep down.

Someone said
That it's all artificial;
That singing
In a place like this-
To people like this-
Can't mean anything.

Sometimes I have doubts
Myself.
And want to just sit down
And think.

And I think
About all the stereotyped
Young people
Outside;
All trying to be different,
And all managing to look
Remarkably alike.
And I hope to God
That we don't all
Give in to the pressure
From outside,
The compressed and packaged
Culture-
Ready cooked-
That is pumped out
Day and night.
Creative talents
Are sucked in
And flattened out.
All the diamonds
Are cut and ground.