Investigate RetroLove
RetroLove is serendipitous meetings, Instamatic cameras, tissue-paper blue aerograms, transistor radios on a blanket at Jones Beach, scratchy vinyl LP’s and static long-distance. A first kiss under a streetlamp. A loved-long life. These sweet and sexy poems will take you back. Snuggle up with the collection of poems published by Greenleaf Poetry Press.
RetroLove was also an evening-length performance of poetry, jazz and songs, originally presented by Philadelphia Jazz Project. Get more info here.
RetroLove was also an evening-length performance of poetry, jazz and songs, originally presented by Philadelphia Jazz Project. Get more info here.
RetroLove: The Song
Listen to the poem here.
When it spilled from the dashboard as we drove
to the shore in my yellow Oldsmobile with the top down
and then again from the dial-tuned 77WABC, transistor radio
on our blanket on the sand at Jones Beach,
we figured Cousin Brucie was sending us a sign --
and we spun that tune from the black vinyl LP
held tenderly by the edges, dropped the needle again
and again, so we could slow dance when we were together
and sigh when we were apart until the groove wore down
into a stutter skip right before the second chorus
which made it, irreplaceably, ours, and now Cousin Brucie
is pushing 80, and the tune has gone digital, its underlying
hiss erased, but still when I hear it, I wait for the stutter,
the way my heart still skips at the first notes of us.
When it spilled from the dashboard as we drove
to the shore in my yellow Oldsmobile with the top down
and then again from the dial-tuned 77WABC, transistor radio
on our blanket on the sand at Jones Beach,
we figured Cousin Brucie was sending us a sign --
and we spun that tune from the black vinyl LP
held tenderly by the edges, dropped the needle again
and again, so we could slow dance when we were together
and sigh when we were apart until the groove wore down
into a stutter skip right before the second chorus
which made it, irreplaceably, ours, and now Cousin Brucie
is pushing 80, and the tune has gone digital, its underlying
hiss erased, but still when I hear it, I wait for the stutter,
the way my heart still skips at the first notes of us.
