Furry Lewis. They walk about our Gothic campus asking students where
Does Lewis live.
We are like, who is Furry Lewis? And why are you asking us?
They were long haired, sweet tempered and determined and we helped them find
Furry Lewis Hippie magic, we thought. They called him up and he said
Come over.
Furry Lewis lived in a neat bungalow with a wife, girlfriend, minder
Cautious, watchful—
—Who are these white folks and you girl with your
Afro hair? Who are you?
Furry was cool. He was used to visits from enthusiasts
New York or Tokyo, did not matter—he was Gentleman
Personified until he played his guitar.
Then a world of bad women, sharp knives, guns,
Spilled blood the howling Klan
Came out of his old man’s mouth.
Running from the twin dogs of war and poverty
Got him out of the hell the Delta could be
And let him listen to children, we were children
In his house. Black revolutionaries said blues don’t matter,
All those “Toms” strumming some dumb guitar.
They surely meant this kindly man with fire in eyes.
When Black Panthers were busted in Memphis,
A fundraiser was organized. And
.
Who were there—not the Memphis Rhythm and Blues
Establishment, their pimp hats cocked to the side.
Not the rock and roll hippie guys, they were for peace, man.
Nor the young “bloods” brandishing revolutionary rhetoric,
Spooked up, doped out.
There was this old man with a silly first name.
This old bluesman ferociously singing
Lifting up defiant young people.
No shame in his game.
Howling his blues, teaching
Us the sound of revolution—
Power to the people in an old man’s voice.
