Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Poem by Victor Snyder: "Danceland's Euolgy"

Thanks to everyone who has made it out to the evnets the past two night!  Tonight is the workshop at the Midwest Writing Center, so if you can, come.  Tomorrow is the big Visible Cities Poetry Project reading, and you should definitely come to that & hear all our contributors bring their work to life!  Details on all the remaining events to your right (& scroll down)...

Today's first piece is from Victor Synder of Stillwater, OK.  Victor is a QC native, and, well, I'll let him explain this piece & where he's coming from:

"I heard of your project from my close friend Nancy Kiefer, who I am collaborating with on a similar project, based on our memories of the Quad Cities of our childhood. We grew up together and lived only a block away from each other, so we share many similar experiences...

I am an artist, musician, song writer and poet. the poem is based on my years of playing music professionally in the Quad Cities area in the early eighties. Dancland, of course, is a well known landmark in downtown Davenport. I also share Nancy's view of the mid west Gothic flavor of the area that lingers in our memories, and was always fascinated with the seamier side of the Q.C.; the soft white underbelly of seedy bars, run-down strip clubs, and late night honky tonks where I often plied my trade. This poem is an impression from a musician's point of view; a front row seat, if you will, to the often bizarre pageant of life played out after hours in the Cities."

Very cool.  & thanks to Victor for his work.  NOTE: Danceland is Davenport, IA is decidedly NOT dead.  On Halloween, it will be packed with the undead, but the place is still there, still available, though perhaps underused.  But not on Halloween.  Visit here and here for more info.  & now, "Danceland's Euolgy":



Danceland’s Eulogy



Dan had a country western band,
I was a hired gun.
Dan had a gig three stories up;
A ballroom called Danceland.

Dan could not sing, but liked to call
His hired guns his “boys”.
We’d not rehearse his country noise.
He’d shout the key. That’s all.

Old men in tattered suits of plaid
And girdled glamour gals
Would shuffle round the floor like pals;
Lost friends they never had.

Big bands had graced this stage before
In glory days gone by,
But now these floor boards creak and sigh
While dancer’s feet grow sore.

And Dan, his voice is out of key
And echoes in this room.
An amplified, distorted boom
Is Danceland’s eulogy.





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