Taft High School Library

“The only thing that you absolutely have to know, is the location of the library.” – Albert Einstein

Library Hours

Monday 7:30 - 4:00

Tuesday 7:30 - 4:00

Wednesday 7:30 - 4:00

Thursday 7:30 - 4:00

Friday 7:30 - 4:00

Address:
3780 Spyglass Ridge Dr.
Lincoln City, OR 97367

Library Assistant:

Danielle Clanton

Contact Info:

541-996-2115 X120

danielle.clanton@lincoln.k12.or.us

Phone: 541.996.2115     Fax: 541.996.4335 


POEM of the DAY


Ode to Dusty Springfield

David Trinidad

What makes

a voice

distinct?

What special

quality

makes it

indelible?

Yours is plaintive,

as any singer

of torch songs

must be,

yet endowed

with confidence,

and fully

in command.

Deep and

resonant,

a bit husky

if you like.

A voice that rises—

or skyrockets,

rather—from

a wellspring

of pure emotion.

Manically

infatuated

in “I Only

Want to Be

with You.”

Desperate to

keep your

lover from

leaving in

“Stay Awhile.”

Despondent

in “I Just

Don’t Know

What to Do

with Myself”

and “You Don’t

Have to Say

You Love Me.”

All cried out

in “All Cried

Out.” But then

amazingly

on the rebound

in “Brand New Me.”


I hear your

voice, Dusty,

and I am

instantly

whisked

back in time,

not quite

a teenager

all over

again,

full of longing

and confusion,

listening

to your

latest hit

on my

red plastic

transistor

radio on

a mid-sixties

Los Angeles

suburban

summer

afternoon.


Twice in

my life, I

found myself

in the same

room as you.

Can one fathom

anything more

miraculous?

The first

time was

in 1983, late

November,

in the basement

of a church

in Los Feliz,

around the

corner from

where I lived.

Sober only

a few weeks,

I watched

you approach

the podium,

but didn’t

realize who

you were

until you

identified

yourself as

“Dusty S.”

For the next

twenty minutes,

you told us

the story

of your

drinking.

How early in

your career,

backstage

before a

performance,

one of the

Four Tops

handed you

your first

drink, vodka.

How smoothly

it went down

and loosened

you up,

lit you from

within,

gave you

enough

courage

to go out on

stage, into that

blinding spot,

and sing like

no one else.

The alcohol

eventually

stopped working—

it always does,

that brand

of magic

is transient—

and here you

were, two

decades

later, sober

and clean

and still singing,

so to speak,

before a live

audience.

In my youth,

your words

had come over

the radio

and stirred

feelings

of heartbreak

and infatuation.

Now they

inspired me

to keep

coming back.

The second

time, 1987,

four years

sober, at a more

upscale meeting

at Cedars-Sinai

in West Hollywood,

I sat directly

behind you.

It was hard

to breathe

being in such

close proximity.

I didn’t hear

a word the

speaker said.

During his

drunkalog,

I slowly,

surreptitiously,

moved the

toe of my

white high-top

until it touched

the back of

your folding chair.

Then said a

little prayer.

I hoped

(should I be

embarrassed

admitting this?)

that some

of your

stardust

might travel

down the

metal leg

of your chair,

like a lightning

rod, and be

passed on

to me.


It’s after

midnight

again, Dusty,

half a century

since, on

a suburban

lawn or alone

in my room,

I suffered

through hits

by Paul Revere

& the Raiders

and Herman’s

Hermits,

just to

experience

two or

three minutes

of your

sultry voice.

I’m on

YouTube

again, watching

the black-and-white

video of you

singing “I

Only Want

to Be

with You.”

Your 1964

appearance

on some teen

variety show.

I’ve viewed

it innumerable

times, but

it’s always

exciting to see

you dance

out of the

darkness into

the round

spotlight,

exuberant

as the song’s

intro, arms

outspread,

in a chiffon

cocktail

dress and

high heels,

your platinum

hair, sprayed

perfectly

in place,

as bright

and shiny

as the moon.

Midway

through the

song—the

instrumental

bridge—you

turn and

sashay around

the edge of

the spotlight,

the ruffled

hem of your

chiffon dress

twisting with

your hips

and intricate

footwork.

Circle circling

circle: your

full backlit

hair orbiting

the pool of

white light

in the center

of the stage.

I watch this

again and again,

like Bashō’s moon

walking around

the pond

all night long.