XPost: alt.arts.poetry.comments, rec.music.dylan   
   From: user3274@newsgrouper.org.invalid   
      
   When Carl Sandburg met Bob Dylan:   
      
   https://groups.google.com/g/rec.music.dylan/c/zhWBZGHCn8Y/m/HieH0OUdBQAJ   
      
   Carl Sandburg and Bob Dylan:   
      
   I was just reading an interesting chronology of Bob Dylan's first tour, made   
   in a station wagon, during which he met Carl Sandburg, written by Anthony   
   Scaduto.   
      
   ===============   
      
   https://groups.google.com/g/rec.music.dylan/c/zhWBZGHCn8Y/m/HieH0OUdBQAJ   
      
   "Later that morning they were on the road again, Clayton driving, Dylan   
   studying the map: “Hendersonville, North Carolina,” he said. “You gotta   
   take this highway” — shoving the map in front of Clayton — “and right   
   outside Hendersonville is    
   where he has his place, Flat Rock. That’s where he lives.”   
      
   "They entered Flat Rock late that afternoon, pulled up to a gas station. Dylan   
   jumped out of the car. “Where’s Carl Sandburg’s place?” he asked the   
   tall gangling mountain man in coveralls. “You know, the poet.” The   
   mountain man considered    
   that for a while. “You mean Sandburg the goat farmer?” he asked..."   
      
   “No, I mean Sandburg the poet.”   
      
   “Don’t know about no poet. There’s a Sandburg has a goat farm. Wrote a   
   book on Lincoln. Little guy. Littler than you, even. If that’s the one, take   
   this road two miles up there, turn left after the little bridge, can’t miss   
   it if you’re sober.   
   ”   
      
   "Stoned, they didn’t miss it. They pulled up to the farm house and knocked   
   on the door. A small, bearded, wizened man came out..."   
      
   “You’re Carl Sandburg,” Dylan said, not asking. “I’m Bob Dylan.   
   I’m a poet, too.”   
      
   “How nice,” Sandburg said, his smile saying another kid who wants to be a   
   poet. But he tried to be gracious and said, “Come, sit a while.” Mrs.   
   Sandburg joined them, smiling but not saying anything..."   
      
   “I’ve written some songs, Mr. Sandburg,” Dylan said. “I know Woody   
   Guthrie, he’s very sick in a hospital, he talked about you a lot. Got some   
   songs here I’d appreciate you listening to.” He handed Sandburg one of the   
   albums and the poet    
   took it and said, “That’s wonderful,” but it was clear he was simply   
   being polite. They chatted awhile, Dylan rambling on about folk music, and his   
   own songs and poems, and subtly telling Sandburg he was a young poet and   
   Sandburg should recognize    
   him because he recognized Sandburg as an older poet. And Sandburg smiled at   
   this scruffy kid promoting his album, hyping himself as a poet, Sandburg   
   polite but not particularly interested..."   
      
   "After about ten minutes Dylan said, “Well, gotta go. Nice meeting you,”   
   and he turned and skipped down the steps and into the car. His entourage piled   
   in after him and they drove off, quickly, Dylan slouching down in the front   
   seat, very quiet,    
   staring straight ahead. Someone handed him a joint and he puffed deeply and   
   said nothing. He was obviously annoyed at his encounter with Sandburg, hurt   
   that the poet had never heard of him..."  -Anthony Scaduto   
      
   ===================   
      
   (Original text restored.)   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)