"Ode to Dusty Springfield" by David Trinidad

View this email on a browser Forward to a friend June 13, 2018   Ode to Dusty Springfield   David Trinidad

What makes                      a voice                      distinct?                      What special                      quality                      makes it                      indelible?                      Yours is plaintive,                      as any singer                      of torch songs                      must be,                      yet endowed                      with confidence,                      and fully                      in command.                      Deep and                      resonant,                      a bit husky                      if you like.                      A voice that rises—                      or skyrockets,                      rather—from                      a wellspring                      of pure emotion.                      Manically                      infatuated                      in "I Only                      Want to Be                      with You."                      Desperate to                      keep your                      lover from                      leaving in                      "Stay Awhile."                      Despondent                      in "I Just                      Don't Know                      What to Do                      with Myself"                      and "You Don't                      Have to Say                      You Love Me."                      All cried out                      in "All Cried                      Out."  But then                      amazingly                      on the rebound                      in "Brand New Me."                      I hear your                      voice, Dusty,                      and I am                      instantly                      whisked                      back in time,                      not quite                      a teenager                      all over                      again,                      full of longing                      and confusion,                      listening                      to your                      latest hit                      on my                      red plastic                      transistor                      radio on                      a mid-sixties                      Los Angeles                      suburban                      summer                      afternoon.                      Twice in                      my life, I                      found myself                      in the same                      room as you.                      Can one fathom                      anything more                      miraculous?                      The first                      time was                      in 1983, late                      November,                      in the basement                      of a church                      in Los Feliz,                      around the                      corner from                      where I lived.                      Sober only                      a few weeks,                      I watched                      you approach                      the podium,                      but didn't                      realize who                      you were                      until you                      identified                      yourself as                      "Dusty S."                      For the next                      twenty minutes,                      you told us                      the story                      of your                      drinking.                      How early in                      your career,                      backstage                      before a                      performance,                      one of the                      Four Tops                      handed you                      your first                      drink, vodka.                      How smoothly                      it went down                      and loosened                      you up,                      lit you from                      within,                      gave you                      enough                      courage                      to go out on                      stage, into that                      blinding spot,                      and sing like                      no one else.                      The alcohol                      eventually                      stopped working—                      it always does,                      that brand                      of magic                      is transient—                      and here you                      were, two                      decades                      later, sober                      and clean                      and still singing,                      so to speak,                      before a live                      audience.                      In my youth,                      your words                      had come over                      the radio                      and stirred                      feelings                      of heartbreak                      and infatuation.                      Now they                      inspired me                      to keep                      coming back.                                           The second                      time, 1987,                      four years                      sober, at a more                      upscale meeting                      at Cedars-Sinai                      in West Hollywood,                      I sat directly                      behind you.                      It was hard                      to breathe                      being in such                      close proximity.                      I didn't hear                      a word the                      speaker said.                      During his                      drunkalog,                      I slowly,                      surreptitiously,                      moved the                      toe of my                      white high-top                      until it touched                      the back of                      your folding chair.                      Then said a                      little prayer.                      I hoped                      (should I be                      embarrassed                      admitting this?)                      that some                      of your                      stardust                      might travel                      down the                      metal leg                      of your chair,                      like a lightning                      rod, and be                      passed on                      to me.                      It's after                      midnight                      again, Dusty,                      half a century                      since, on                      a suburban                      lawn or alone                      in my room,                      I suffered                      through hits                      by Paul Revere                      & the Raiders                      and Herman's                      Hermits,                      just to                      experience                      two or                      three minutes                      of your                      sultry voice.                      I'm on                      YouTube                      again, watching                      the black-and-white                      video of you                      singing "I                      Only Want                      to Be                      with You."                      Your 1964                      appearance                      on some teen                      variety show.                      I've viewed                      it innumerable                      times, but                      it's always                      exciting to see                      you dance                      out of the                      darkness into                      the round                      spotlight,                      exuberant                      as the song's                      intro, arms                      outspread,                      in a chiffon                      cocktail                      dress and                      high heels,                      your platinum                      hair, sprayed                      perfectly                      in place,                      as bright                      and shiny                      as the moon.                      Midway                      through the                      song—the                      instrumental                      bridge—you                      turn and                      sashay around                      the edge of                      the spotlight,                      the ruffled                      hem of your                      chiffon dress                      twisting with                      your hips                      and intricate                      footwork.                      Circle circling                      circle: your                      full backlit                      hair orbiting                      the pool of                      white light                      in the center                      of the stage.                      I watch this                      again and again,                      like Bashō's moon                      walking around                      the pond                      all night long.                Copyright © 2018 David Trindiad. Used with permission of the author. About This Poem   "I'd always wanted to write about my brushes with Dusty Springfield, a pop star of goddess-like proportions from my childhood. I started the poem in a notebook in September 2016 and for some reason set it aside, but it stayed in my mind. Over a year later I went back and picked it up again. I'm glad I did." —David Trinidad   David Trinidad's most recent book is Swinging on a Star (Turtle Point Press, 2017). He is a professor of poetry at Columbia College Chicago.   Photo credit: Alyssa Lynee Poetry by Trinidad   Swinging on a Star (Turtle Point Press, 2017) "For No Good Reason" by Twyla M. Hansen "For N & K" by Gina Myers "Ode to Country Music" by Sandra Simonds June Guest Editor: D. A. Powell   Thanks to D. A. Powell, author of Repast: Tea, Lunch, Cocktails (Graywolf Press, 2014), who curated Poem-a-Day this month. Read more about Powell and our guest editors for the year. Help Support Poem-a-Day   If you value Poem-a-Day, please consider a monthly donation or one-time gift to help make it possible. Poem-a-Day is the only digital series publishing new, previously unpublished work by today's poets each weekday morning. The free series, which also features a curated selection of classic poems on weekends, reaches 450,000+ readers daily. Thank you! Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.   You are receiving this e-mail because you elected to subscribe to our mailing list. If you would like to unsubscribe, please click here.   © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038

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