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Nat Lipstadt Jul 11
When Leonard Cohen Met Charlie Daniels, The Devil Went Down to Georgia

The Devil Went Down to Georgia ¥

Charlie Daniels, the country music legend who died July 6, 2020, was part of the 1970 Leonard Cohen tour. (see notes)
This one is a gift to a recovering addict and a poet, for whom that peculiar, par-articulate, addictive passion, thank the Lord, got no cure.


two country boys, ok, so different countries, but both intimately
a-cquainted with the Devil, his song & music-making-copious
a-bilities, his other trois backup ***-sin-tants, The Sin Sisters,
a/k/a wine and women and sweet poetry...

now the Devil mostly gets his due, you pay his price twice, in daily
wear ‘n tear on body and soul, always trying to keep one step ahead,
taking his best, sometimes leaving the rest, but ha! not always cause sometimes a...

bargain needs keeping, gotta keep your word honest, still if you can find a wile e coyote-wriggle-way to be a tad faster, keep them ten  fingers crisscrossed, you might steal a tune or three, before you chanter la finale, sing/pay the last installment...

now these boys were multilingual, one spoke french, the other, southern, but two-gether, they could harmonize the Lord’s Prayer on a banjo, fiddle and a guitar, in une langue ancienne#, formerly spoke in those United States and Canada, now only in the heavens above...

cannot truthful say I ever saw them play on the same stage, no matter,
cause the parallels are clear as a night sky starry moon, the stories they told, in lyrical verse, different cuzins, slightly incestuous, and
infectious too, cause you catch yourself singing redneck in a foreign
language and you’re liking the way women looking at the big star on
a tour bus...

now the devil wanted these bad boys real bad in his pantheon, went
down to Georgia and back up to Montréal au paradis, said to them “no more diddling, just fiddling and singing, time to make that finale payment, principal and interest, come to collect my country boys  and all what they got left...alors allons en enfer mes bébés..”##

now the sounds they made was just too good, the Lord heard it, it was like Picasso painting the sky, and came to collect Charlie yesterday, (07/06/20), Leonard had come up earlier, and if you need to learn how this story ends, well, there’s a poem listed down below avec tous les détails.

but as my straight laced pappy, use to say in his German accented english, in his morning suit, striped pants and Homburg hat, all’s well that don’t end in hell

or something like that anyway.
# in an ancient tongue
## ok then let’s go to hell, my babies

“He [Leonard Cohen] spoke in poetic ways and was able to communicate with people who had never lived in that world, like myself, and had never been exposed to that side of things…I saw another whole side of music that I had never seen, and I had so much respect for Leonard’s creativity, unique thoughts, the way his mind works. I learned a lot. You know what we do is the sum total of what we’ve done, actually. I was glad to be exposed to that feel, to that thing.”.  Charlie Daniels

^Also see:

¥ “ The Devil went down to Georgia. He was lookin' for a soul to steal.
He was in a bind 'cause he was way behind and he was willing to make a deal
When he came across this young man sawin' on a fiddle and playin' it hot.
And the Devil jumped upon a hickory stump and said, "Boy, let me tell you what."

"I guess you didn't know it, but I'm a fiddle player, too.
And if you'd care to take a dare I'll make a bet with you.
Now you play a pretty good fiddle, boy, but give the Devil his due.
I'll bet a fiddle of gold against your soul 'cause I think I'm better than you."

The boy said, "My name's Johnny, and it might be a sin,
But I'll take your bet; you're gonna regret 'cause I'm the best there's ever been."
Mitch Prax Mar 31
They sprinkled
the streets in
holy water
and locked the city down
as if it were world war II.
Maybe there is hope
for the city of light
in this world of darkness.
So send your priests,
and send your angels,
and maybe,
just maybe,
we will be alright.
monique ezeh Jan 28
In Georgia, it is 82 degrees.
Sweltering sticky heat and air so thick with humidity
It’s like you’re swimming through syrup
Weigh me down.
Sweat slips down my spine like living water, a reminder that
I am here— uncomfortable, yes, but not quite hurting.
People smile. I smile back.

In New York, it’s 39 degrees.
Wind whips at my face, rendering my cheeks rosy and stinging my eyes with tears.
My teeth chatter, rattling my whole jaw with them.
The subtle pain reminds me I’m alive.
I’m not quite sure when I decided pain and existence were synonymous
But I did
And today is another reminder.
I smile. No one smiles back.

At least they’re alive. At least I am.
a poem about the weather, but also not.
nom de plume Dec 2019
It’s not an art museum,
it’s a Waffle House,
and you’re looking sleepy
as you sip your tea.
It’s three a.m. and
I know we still have a few more miles until my house,
but I’m home and you know it.
I’m ripping up a napkin with my
hands as we talk about the concert.
I know I enjoyed it more than you,
and I know I cried on the way home
because I thought you didn’t love me,
but you still came to the concert
even though you didn’t really like the artist,
and now we’re at a Waffle House at three a.m.,
and the garish yellow decor reflects on your skin,
and we’re sweaty and tired,
and I love you in the rare, inexpressible way
that feels most potent
after concerts at Waffle Houses at three a.m.
it was an amanda palmer concert, if you were curious
Jake Welsh Nov 2019
the blue glow of the television screen
mimicked the moonlight through the car window
where sat, Kate and i, in silence, watching
after a day gone that began with my name and hers

continued on until her slumber
whilst a lunar halo around me kept me walking in the night

the Georgian oak canopy hangs around like aurora borealis
i’ve never noticed it before
from "salve" 2019
available @:
Emma Barlow Nov 2019
The bacon grease from the homegrown beans
on my lips
reminding me of my roots
The playing cards from the shrinking deck
shuffling in my hand
commanding me to be kind
The peanut brittle fresh off the pan
crackling loudly in his jaw
proving I am loved
The blueberries growing on her bush
looking into my window
prompting me to work hard
The magnolias from the glorious tree
smelling sweetly
reminding me I am home.
Mark Toney Oct 2019
St. Simons Island
beached Juicy Fruit gum wrapper. . .
flotsam and jetsam
5/19/2018 - Poetry form: Haiku - I took a photo of a Juicy Fruit gum wrapper surrounded by sea foam bubbles, which I found 2 hours after low tide while walking on St. Simons Island beach on December 4, 2011. The photo was taken with my iPhone 5 or my iPad 4.  I can't remember which :) - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
Mark Toney Oct 2019
Hale-Bopp’s fly-by
midnight stroll St. Simons beach-
lovers gently kiss
5/1/2018 - Poetry form: haiku - In 1997 my wife and I were taking a midnight stroll on the beach in St. Simons Island, GA, while the comet Hale-Bopp was flying by. Good as time as any for a kiss, yeah? Hale-Bopp is due to return in the year 4380. I wonder where we’ll be then? - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
Mitch Prax Mar 2019
the city is a
distant monument to our
one summer in love.
Nikos Kyriazis Feb 2019

Their voice rapped the portals
and from the dim smoke
a white pigeon sprung
and followed the trail downwards

The crests of the churches,
sharp shelters for the wounded
that come from above
and from below

Are the firmaments raining fire?
For my eyes have filled with tears of black
and my soul's purified

Is this your delivering message?
For lakes, mountains,
beasts and humans are waiting,
and we shall always do


Will the Theatre of Pain
be utterly empty one day?

We are actors that do not dare
to read the elder lines
Nomads amidst the sandstorm
in our sinful minds

Shall I drink my animal's blood?
For my people's thirsty for salvation
in this deserted land
and I only saw once a roaming scrap
from your royal garments

Faith is hanging from a thread
And only in the night-praying hours
the poetry's lines true shine

Do not be the actor
that turns his back
on the crowd's clapping


Everything is appointed
the prophets have spoken

Will, you always love
those who betray?
Spreading words of hope
to the humble with burned faces

The needy have already
flooded the empty rivers
and Pharaoh's wrath is not well locked

I know not how many
are living up there
but I do know how many
are building the realm of Hades

The flame shall kneel before you
and oceans will be divided into two
Once the ominous words
are heard inside your Temple again
This poem is influenced by the sacred music of Father Serafim and his chants from Georgia. I cite the link below
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