A young friend of mine, Matthew Bodwell, asked for this poem. He's a junior at Bates, but more to the point , a musician, lead singer and guitarist with the Lewiston Variety, a four man group playing indie rock, psychedelic, and even some jazz." Matt's always been curious about my husband, the man in the picture,  a jazz trombonist who played with some world class players even in the late years when live music was increasingly on life support. You can find the poem as always at Tupelo. Here--as a jazz man might say--is a taste:

A Litany of Gigs

For the first, he was 18,

and the band bus picked him up

on 95 half way to Boston—this sturdy

kid by the side of the road,

that awkward trombone

dangling from one hand. And the gig

at Lenny’s, Ray Charles sitting in

on Let’s Go Get Stoned, and the time

he played with Bennett, Krupa

on the drums. Or Brandee’s Wharf,

a two story glass box on the river, filled

with light and brass. Eighteen of them

just in from London, and they’ve put away

four up-tempo charts in a row

when he reaches for that note

at the high peak of Someday,

and hits it so pure and clear, the reed

players turn together 

and grin. 

I wanted to capture something of the way musicians are always playing mainly for other musicians, the way they listen to each other, ride each other and remember one another's best solo's, best phrases. Best damn high notes. Not unlike poets, who write for each other, too. 

I'm very grateful to Matt for asking because I loved writing this poem. And as it happens, tomorrow is the 9th anniversary of Tony's death. This was a lovely way to remember him. 

But, of course, I'm only a quarter done. You can see how much help a prompt can be, can't you? Send me one. I'll be grateful to you, too. Here's the donation page. And leave the request at gaildimaggio@aol.com.