At the Bob Dylan concert

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Monday woke up gloomy with some seed of dark mood, and with a gale ate at the breakfast.

Buckets of rain,
Buckets of tears, (…)
Buckets of moonbeams in my hand

– sings Bob Dylan in one of his songs. And in the middle of those feelings, we go to his concert in Dublin. But from every kilometer, our day is more lucid, although it gets dark early in November. Thin fries, vegan and chicken burgers devoured under a black and white roof in the pink light. The rain drips on our table on the side of Grafton Street.

Meanwhile, in an hour, they lock our phones in fleece cases, I stuff two into my bag, sit down in a plastic blue armchair, and staring the scene. The lights go out. Now only the golden moon shines. Bob Dylan in a black long wool jacket ( I can see two white Celtic cock embroidered patterns) stands behind his piano like on the road. He takes us to Key West.

Key West is the place to be.

So we put our feet on the ground we are on it.

Such is life, such is happiness
Hibiscus flowers, they grow everywhere here
If you wear one, put it behind your ear

Great double bass, piano, drums, tambourine, two electric guitars, and the soft and gruff voice of a buddy. There is not all is unplugged, but I feel it is. Ballads roll and creak like a freight train. We are here and now, nodding our heads to the beat of the blues.

I had a woman down in Alabama
She was a backwoods girl, but she sure was realistic
She said: Boy, without a doubt, have to quit your mess and straighten out
You could die down here, be just another accident statistic

We’ve never heard tracks from a new album “Rough and Rowdy Ways” before, but a concert is like putting on a fresh music album you just brought with all the tracks you taste for the first time but they are performed life straight by a performer, especially for you.

My eye is like a shooting star

It looks at nothing, neither near or far

No one ever told me, it’s just something I knew

I’ve made up my mind to give myself to you

When we’re leaving the space of 3Arena, our phones are still locked in soft cases – You have to take them home and cut them with a knife – some guy laughs. Dublin is in neons, sea waves run out from the glass building.

People are waiting for the tram, others sitting on the corner in the pub or coming back homes by crossing the bridges on Liffey river. Dylan still plays 200 km to Galway, so many good pieces. In the morning Maciek brings croissants with blueberry jam and coffee from our corner Cafe. The day starts slowly, we have his songs in our travel through life, always.

P.S. Sharon, I was thinking about you during the concert, and about your New York.

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2 Comments At the Bob Dylan concert

  1. Sharon 8 November 2022 at 23:39

    I was “with you” here from the beginning! Poetry to match the master 🙂 I guess I am not surprised, as poetry has no perimeters, poetry is porous, and poetry includes yet does not suffer fools. I am so happy you shared this experience!

  2. Sharon 8 November 2022 at 23:42

    I mean to say, “is inclusive”! Or add a comma before “yet does not . . .” Oh well, I am sure you catch my drift! Poetry is more democratic than what may be the results of our elections 🙁


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