Google Groups no longer supports new Usenet posts or subscriptions. Historical content remains viewable.
Dismiss
Carl Sandburg and Bob Dylan
28 views
Skip to first unread message
Will Dockery
Jul 13, 2020, 11:38:42 PM7/13/20
to
On Sunday, June 21, 2020 at 2:29:57 PM UTC-4, George J. Dance wrote:
> Penny's Poetry Blog's poem for Fathers' Day:
> A Father to His Son, by Carl Sandburg
>
> A father sees a son nearing manhood.
> What shall he tell that son?
> [...]
>
> https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2020/06/a-father-to-his-son-carl-sanburg.html
I was just reading an interesting chronology of Bob Dylan's first tour, made in a station wagon, during which he met Carl Sandburg:
============================================================
https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/bob-dylan-an-intimate-biography-part-two-237760/
Later that morning they were on the road again, Clayton driving, Dylan studying the map: “Hendersonville, North Carolina,” he said. “You gotta take this highway” — shoving the map in front of Clayton — “and right outside Hendersonville is where he has his place, Flat Rock. That’s where he lives.”
They entered Flat Rock late that afternoon, pulled up to a gas station. Dylan jumped out of the car. “Where’s Carl Sandburg’s place?” he asked the tall gangling mountain man in coveralls. “You know, the poet.” The mountain man considered that for a while. “You mean Sandburg the goat farmer?” he asked.
“No, I mean Sandburg the poet.”
“Don’t know about no poet. There’s a Sandburg has a goat farm. Wrote a book on Lincoln. Little guy. Littler than you, even. If that’s the one, take this road two miles up there, turn left after the little bridge, can’t miss it if you’re sober.”
Stoned, they didn’t miss it. They pulled up to the farm house and knocked on the door. A small, bearded, wizened man came out.
“You’re Carl Sandburg,” Dylan said, not asking. “I’m Bob Dylan. I’m a poet, too.”
“How nice,” Sandburg said, his smile saying another kid who wants to be a poet. But he tried to be gracious and said, “Come, sit a while.” Mrs. Sandburg joined them, smiling but not saying anything.
“I’ve written some songs, Mr. Sandburg,” Dylan said. “I know Woody Guthrie, he’s very sick in a hospital, he talked about you a lot. Got some songs here I’d appreciate you listening to.” He handed Sandburg one of the albums and the poet took it and said, “That’s wonderful,” but it was clear he was simply being polite. They chatted awhile, Dylan rambling on about folk music, and his own songs and poems, and subtly telling Sandburg he was a young poet and Sandburg should recognize him because he recognized Sandburg as an older poet. And Sandburg smiled at this scruffy kid promoting his album, hyping himself as a poet, Sandburg polite but not particularly interested.
After about ten minutes Dylan said, “Well, gotta go. Nice meeting you,” and he turned and skipped down the steps and into the car. His entourage piled in after him and they drove off, quickly, Dylan slouching down in the front seat, very quiet, staring straight ahead. Someone handed him a joint and he puffed deeply and said nothing. He was obviously annoyed at his encounter with Sandburg, hurt that the poet had never heard of him.
==================================================
> Penny's Poetry Blog's poem for Fathers' Day:
> A Father to His Son, by Carl Sandburg
>
> A father sees a son nearing manhood.
> What shall he tell that son?
> [...]
>
> https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2020/06/a-father-to-his-son-carl-sanburg.html
I was just reading an interesting chronology of Bob Dylan's first tour, made in a station wagon, during which he met Carl Sandburg:
============================================================
https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/bob-dylan-an-intimate-biography-part-two-237760/
Later that morning they were on the road again, Clayton driving, Dylan studying the map: “Hendersonville, North Carolina,” he said. “You gotta take this highway” — shoving the map in front of Clayton — “and right outside Hendersonville is where he has his place, Flat Rock. That’s where he lives.”
They entered Flat Rock late that afternoon, pulled up to a gas station. Dylan jumped out of the car. “Where’s Carl Sandburg’s place?” he asked the tall gangling mountain man in coveralls. “You know, the poet.” The mountain man considered that for a while. “You mean Sandburg the goat farmer?” he asked.
“No, I mean Sandburg the poet.”
“Don’t know about no poet. There’s a Sandburg has a goat farm. Wrote a book on Lincoln. Little guy. Littler than you, even. If that’s the one, take this road two miles up there, turn left after the little bridge, can’t miss it if you’re sober.”
Stoned, they didn’t miss it. They pulled up to the farm house and knocked on the door. A small, bearded, wizened man came out.
“You’re Carl Sandburg,” Dylan said, not asking. “I’m Bob Dylan. I’m a poet, too.”
“How nice,” Sandburg said, his smile saying another kid who wants to be a poet. But he tried to be gracious and said, “Come, sit a while.” Mrs. Sandburg joined them, smiling but not saying anything.
“I’ve written some songs, Mr. Sandburg,” Dylan said. “I know Woody Guthrie, he’s very sick in a hospital, he talked about you a lot. Got some songs here I’d appreciate you listening to.” He handed Sandburg one of the albums and the poet took it and said, “That’s wonderful,” but it was clear he was simply being polite. They chatted awhile, Dylan rambling on about folk music, and his own songs and poems, and subtly telling Sandburg he was a young poet and Sandburg should recognize him because he recognized Sandburg as an older poet. And Sandburg smiled at this scruffy kid promoting his album, hyping himself as a poet, Sandburg polite but not particularly interested.
After about ten minutes Dylan said, “Well, gotta go. Nice meeting you,” and he turned and skipped down the steps and into the car. His entourage piled in after him and they drove off, quickly, Dylan slouching down in the front seat, very quiet, staring straight ahead. Someone handed him a joint and he puffed deeply and said nothing. He was obviously annoyed at his encounter with Sandburg, hurt that the poet had never heard of him.
==================================================
0 new messages