Thanksgiving and Hendrix

Thanksgiving has always played an interesting role in my life.  Since my birthday is always right around it, I have always felt a certain connection to the holiday.  Even though the history behind it is fairly suspect, that there is a holiday basically devoted to giving thanks is kind of amazing; so I always liked that aspect of it.  But it also seemed like there was often some kind of family drama or fight that would happen.  It was always a strange combination.  My sister wrote her own Thanksgiving poem once which captured this side of the holiday perfectly.  But this poem is more about the giving thanks side of it. This one was a little bit of a mess but there was something there so I reworked it a bit to try and clean it up.  Not quite revisionist history but kinda sorta.

Back when I wrote this I had recently discovered that I shared a birthday with Jimi Hendrix.  There were even a few years there when I celebrated his birthday instead of my own.  I haven't really thought about him in a while but happened to catch part of a History Channel special on Woodstock the other night and watched again the famous performance he did of the national anthem.  All of the people who were being interviewed for the documentary and who were there more or less said the same thing: that Hendrix was on a whole different level than any of the other acts. So I came upon this poem and thought it appropriate to once again give my thanks to him.  I suspect the particular song that I was listening to when I wrote this was likely Hear My Train A-Coming which was always a favorite of mine. 


Thanksgiving                                                      12/12/93

I've been wondering what it was about
this past Thanksgiving
that has kept me from the page.

Something bigger than the page,
wider than this, the Charles;
something arching
in a clouded hue of color
across the silently freezing water.

A reawakening 
to the timeless truth
of our century's clearest soul.
The cracking voice and crashing sound
of Jimi,
dedicating and connecting
with the humm of a chord
to the Cherokee inside himself
and to deep inside us.

Will our will today - 
the sculpture of our passion,
the beaten-on arms and voice 
of the moment's culture - 
be around tomorrow?
Or will it be vultured
into submission,
subsumed 
in these murky waters
of increasing responsibility?
I just can't say

But I can say
Thanks
for learning from you
and for hope
fully feeling you.