Fortuitous Poem by Rudi Blesh

The voice sings and then--
On fateful descending notes--
Echoes its own phrases
Or imitates the wind,
mournfully and far away,
In huh-uh-ummm,
Subsiding like a moan
On the same ominous,
Downward cadence.
The hign, sighing guitar notes
Vanish suddenly into silence
As if swept away
By cold autumn wind.
Plangent, iron chords
Intermittently walk,
Like heavy footsteps
On the same descending minor series.
The images--
The wonderer's voice and its echoes,
The mocking wind running
Through the guitar strings
And the implacable, slow, pursuing footsteps--
Are full of evil,
Surcharged with the terror of one alone
Among the moving, unseen shapes of the night.
Wildly and terribly,
The notes paint
A dark wasteland,
Starless,
Ululant with bitter wind,
Swept by the chill rain.
Over the hilltop
Trudges a lonely,
Ragged,
Bedeviled figure,
Bent to the wind,
With his easy rider
Held by one arm
As it swings from its cord
Around his neck.

(On Robert Johnson singing his "Hellhound on My Trail")