Punch Drunk Poet

I remember the first time I heard Amy winehouse. I was on a college trip to London, sitting in the Hawley  Arms pub, downing pints of Guinness and popping coins into a juke box. When her music hit me I didn’t feel like myself. I was lost somewhere distant, doing a lazy sway to the type of sound that just seemed to pulse through my veins. “Who is this?” I remember shouting, “Who is this on the radio, she’s amazing.” A man leaned over to me and said her name is Amy Winehouse, she lives around here. I remember repeating her name, Amy Winehouse. Stuck on the tip of my tongue, there was a sweetness about it, mixed with an element of tragedy, that I wouldn’t come to understand until the media storm. I downloaded her album Frank and listened to it constantly, even when I returned to the states.  By the time “Rehab” hit the U.S Charts and she became a household name, I was already head over heels in love with the way that she moved me. She could take something as honest and simple as...