Vagabond Song by Marc Beaudin
is a mixed genre journey across the U.S. that I picked up in Montana in the local author section of a book store. In Vagabond Song, prose moves to poetry, to prose poetry, and back again via thumb and jalopy. Beaudin cinematically captures the asphalt veins flowing across America; the prose recounts the journey, the poetry sings of the yearning felt by the nomadic poet, and the prose poetry speaks to the brief intersection of souls on the road. Beaudin’s Vagabond Song is well worth the read, especially for fellow readers that are afflicted with the addiction of travel.
Let me share with you my favorite poem in the book:
Part One: The Voice
The sky too is concrete
rain whipping cold like a father’s belt
& I stand, thumb in hand
waiting
for that one good ride
This is where it begins
This is where it will end:
Western highway fading south
boots lapping up the puddles
like thirsty dogs
eyes squinting into the torrent
of black black rain
I am grateful for the weight of my pack
& icy thunder all around
& then the smile of brake lights
& I’m trading stories w/ a farmer turned trucker
& opening my coat against the heat
& the miles peel away like dollar bills
& the stillness returns
& with it, haunting words
chanced upon in a photograph
in our illegal attic:
“Only the dead
have seen the end of war.”
Sometimes it all comes together
to form what we call a moment
& the moments line up
like schoolchildren
to become a memory –
cluster of images,
fury of autumn leaves
& in this moment, now,
it suddenly occurs to me:
I have never in my life
left a forwarding address
Chestnut Cowboy 