To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last
My poem "Every Night and All" has been accepted by Nightmare Magazine. It is a poem of plague as much as the underworld; the title comes from the refrain of the "Lyke-Wake Dirge," which I learned as a child from the singing of Buffy Sainte-Marie. It has threaded through my work ever since. (It plays a fleeting but central role in "The Boatman's Cure.") Years later I discovered she was singing a variation on the classical arrangement by Benjamin Britten, but as much as I admire the eerie lilt of Peter Pears' famously dry white tenor, less like the living waking the dead than one ghost calling another down, the old sistrum jangle behind Sainte-Marie terrified me in childhood and no amount of strings and horns can change that even now.

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Thank you!
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Thank you!
(That Buffy Sainte-Marie track is quite eerie. I love her and don't listen to her nearly enough.)
Fire & Fleet & Candlelight (1967) is the album of hers I know best, but she was one of the voices always around the house in my childhood. My mother used to be told she looked like her. (It was not untrue.)
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Thank you!
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Congratulations on the sale!
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Yes. This song has always sounded like deep time to me.
Congratulations on the sale!
Thank you!
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Thank you! I really am pleased; I have not sold this market poetry before.
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Thank you and thank you!
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You're welcome! Yes. She does sound like the earth. You believe she knows what's under it.
(I love the way you write of voices like wine. Apparently I have a glass of Peter Pears in front of me as I type.)
Hee! Tell him I say hi.
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If you'd played this to me without telling me who it was, I'd have assumed an older Briton, rather than a young indigenous Canadian. I've met geology I could imagine sounding like this. *shivers*
*Hee! Tell him I said hi.*
He says hello back. I'm probably going to the same hell as Kenneth Williams for this, but Mr Pears tastes quite nice.
(Must investigate some Britten.)
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You keep saying you're not a moral person, but then you keep saying things like this.
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Lotta barefoot unhoused people sleeping on the steps of those white stone buildings in DC.
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Congratulations. Your poem wakes.
Nine
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I'm really surprised the Watersons never recorded it. It would have fit anywhere on Frost and Fire (1965).
Congratulations. Your poem wakes.
Thank you.
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Nine
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I mean, you did write it.
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That's one of the nicest compliments I've ever had. I'm pink with pleasure.
*hugs*
Nine
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Thank you!