Currently, British folk musician, singer/songwriter, Bobby Long, is performing in Germany, but will return to the U.S. in November to perform on tour and the fans can’t wait. Not only do we have his upcoming tour and new EP to look forward to, but we also have his new poetry book to get excited about. Bobby has mentioned from time to time that he’s having a poetry book published. Where? When? Soon, we have been told.
What can we expect in Bobby’s new book? From some samples on his website: BobbyLonginfo.com, we know we’re going to be in for a treat. Bobby is an absolutely brilliant writer. I predict this: Bobby Long’s poetry will have exceptional range – steamy, cosmic yet private, playful and profound. He will emerge in the 21st century as a wry, sensual mystic following in the footsteps of Leonard Cohen, one of his favorites.
Following are some of my favorites of Bobby’s poems:
under some patchwork quilt that used to get used at the beach
you laid with me wondering if i would see you again
as you turned on your side some old sand fell onto your naked arms
ironically showing me the swift fall of time
your attention grew divided
with both a record player and TV flickering and playing in the background
some song i had never heard, by a band that wouldn’t matter
i said this and you said i was angry cause you were leaving in an hour
and to just be still and enjoy this moment
i threw a few nice words out under the cover
in time with an old alarm clock that helped you drift
to sleep and my words did the same
i just went.
i seemed to think i knew everything about you,
you didn’t know anything about me
you didn’t need to.
The river flowed against my weeping leg
scarred like the memories you once gave me
the reed’s coarse hairs split the tension and dread
always ending up here with the passing
gives me hope that things change and sometimes pass
i just want to see my sister dancing
the ledge of the banks is my helping hand
our grandfather carved them out with his spade
he never wanted you in the deep sand
the restlessness of my nature is true
especially here in mirrored nature
you lean and grow with every planted yew
i’m cold and numb inside this young river
And i’ll meet you here soon come the summer
you grow and i’ll be the one to wither.
I dropped some cigarette ash on your neatly cut hair
I made your morning coffee slightly cold
I wept at films that you deemed too bold
And pretended I didn’t need subtitles
These are the things I do to make you flinch.
I played Bach at a higher speed on the record player
I pretended it was broken when you picked out Van Morrison
I sang harmonies to every line when you fixed it.
And dragged my feet when you asked me to change sides.
This is what I do to annoy you.
I poured Starbucks into your independent coffee store cup
I lied about my mother’s age and said I was adopted
I read you Pablo Neruda when you picked out Frost
And changed the words around and made them all about summer.
This is what I do to confuse you.
I never let you help me with the morning crossword
I went on walks for hours and didn’t call
I drank myself into such rich stupors I couldn’t stand
And lied about the trivial shit.
This is what I do because I am a bastard.
I watch you sleep and block the morning light out of your eyes
I cook your favorite meal three nights a week even though I’m allergic
I listen to your friends talk about their friends
I stopped going to the bar.
And so we wait. Not because we’re patient, but becasue we have to. We wonder what Bobby’s new poetry book will be like. What will he share with us? What mysteries will he give us? I can guarantee these things: It will be spectacular. It will be brilliant. It will be soulful. It will be painful. It will be truthful. It will be Bobby.