The song is...: January 2017

Sunday, January 29, 2017

Welcome to Buck Downs (and congratulations to our Pushcart Prize nominees)!

Tonight I'm very happy to post the work of someone who is not only new to The Song Is... but is also from the DC area (or the DMV, as we say now)...Buck Downs. Moreover, he has entered his poem into the non-driving contest.

as one who went on foot
to the motorcycle rally

somewhere between falling apart
and being put together again

shadow formation

reparations for the last run
preparations for the next one

some people like to play with depression
others love being attacked

they were like weren’t you
wearing a helmet

I was like you understand
I broke my leg

they said didn’t you
use protection

I said you get that’s not my kid --

it ain’t no sense
talking about

my life --

I am tempted to include another image of a motorcycle rally. It appears to be somewhere in the UK or Ireland.

Photograph by Mike Hope (Sunbeam Owners Fellowship)

Back at the end of November, during the most hectic part of a hectic fall semester, I submitted nominees for the Pushcart Prizes. It's taken me this long to congratulate you, but tonight is a good night.

I am listing the nominees in chronological order:

Bill Cushing -- "'Music isn't about standing still and being safe'"

Bryn Fortey -- "No Valentines for the James Dean of Jazz"

Mike Bayles -- "A Day Cast in Gray/A Hard Day’s Night Playing in my Mind"

Yoby Henthorn -- "Cerebus"

Bola Ade -- "Hotep sh*t"

Claudine Nash -- "That True Voice"

I also want to include the honorable mentions as well: Tad Richards -- "In a Dream She Sees Lester Young Standing Naked" and "She Took Off Her Dress"; Michael Lee Johnson -- "Little Desert Flower" and "Alberta Bound"; and Amber Smithers' "Bulimia Poem."

Thank you, everyone, for your contributions!

Now for the music....

I have posted so many pieces by Miles Davis. Tonight I'll post "Nefertiti": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JtQLolwNByw

Here is his "Filles de Kilimanjaro": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=noUs3NfC07o
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulf9-7BI3aw

For Chet Baker, I'll include a 1959 recording of "My Funny Valentine": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8SGAcP7Zh6U

This is his version of "Autumn Leaves": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sgn7VfXH2GY

I'll finish with some Lester Young. First is his version of "Our Love is Here to Stay" with Teddy Wilson: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xWoGC0SFWzo

Next is "I Didn't Know What Time It Was," a very appropriate title tonight! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bYtTzZusJkg

Back to my papers!

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Welcome to Philip Elliott!

Tonight I'm pleased to post two poems by Philip Elliott, the editor-in-chief of Into the Void and an intriguing writer in his own right. I love how he interpreted the jazz contest, and as he noted, "I adore jazz, and see no real distinction between it and a good poem."

That Sax Solo Put A Spell On Me*

I put a spell on you, because you’re mine

You’re mine . . . .

Biiiiip bay

bah

be ba bahhhh bahu bah baba

wah baba baba baba bbrrriiiip ba

Be be buh

ba ba beyh~beyh~beyh~beyh~beyh~beyh~beyh~beyh~beyh

hhhh bahe

bahoo

bey

bahhhh babebeba

bah

Buh ba ba

booo . . . .

* from ‘I Put A Spell On You’ by Nina Simone

Are you ready for the future?

Vulgar Machines

Year 401 of the Second Age

after the old ones somehow

made the world kill them:

A small village (in what was once

an old nursing home outside

what was once Gainsville, FL)

gather by the fire and chat.

‘We’ve all heard that the old

ones used to fly in the sky in

great big winged contraptions,’

the eldest man tells the group of

mostly young families, ‘but bet

you never heard bout their vulgar

machines. ‘Vulgar machines?’ a child

echoes, eyes wide and hungry with

imagination. ‘Oh yeah.’ The old man

grins, licks his lips, as excited as the

kid. ‘Every single one of the old ones

whizzed their selfs around in these big,

noisy, coughing, spluttering, vulgar

machines that could outrun the fastest

wild horse in the land. Could mow a

person down and not even be slowed.

Every one of the old ones had one and

used it to get everywhere. Could be

they even waged war gainst one nother

with em. They say that there used to be

hundreds of these machines lined up on the

Streets up until a couple hundred years ago

when people started melting them down.’

The gathering is silent, an image in every

brain. ‘I don’t know, dad,’ a man says

‘sounds a bit unlikely to me. The old ones

weren’t gods.’ ‘No,’ the old man agrees,

‘but they sure as hell thought they were.’

Bio:

Philip Elliott is Irish, 23 years old and Editor-in-Chief of Into the Void Magazine. His writing can be found in various journals, most recently Otoliths, GFT Press, Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine and Subprimal Poetry Art. He is currently working on his first novel, a novella and a chapbook of experimental poetry. Stalk him at philipelliottfiction.com.

Before I post music, I'd like to mention that noted author and contest judge Catfish McDaris is gathering poems and fiction inspired by Vincent Van Gogh. Are you interested? He doesn't have a publisher yet, but he is quite excited by this project. Please email me for more details.

Now here is the music. Of course, we are starting with Nina Simone's "I Put a Spell on You": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ua2k52n_Bvw

I am also including her "I Wish I Knew How It Feels to Be Free": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N4CbuE6--as

Let's include some saxophones now as well.

John Coltrane joins the Sonny Rollins Quartet for "Tenor Madness":
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3MkUvZUTFUc

Let's go back to Charlie Parker. He and Sonny Rollins are part of the Miles Davis Sextet on "Compulsion": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6zsR5z33jwU

Here Sonny Stitt and Dexter Gordon are playing together on "a rejected Stitt session" from 1962: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3b5Y8qpu1Gs

I'll finish with a contemporary saxophonist, Grace Kelly on "Blues for Harry Bosch": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPmEefH4Sf8

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Welcome to Jennifer Elizabeth Hall!

Tonight I'd like to post two poems and a drawing by my former student Jennifer Elizabeth Hall. Her first poem brings spring nearer to us.

Cradle of Life

In the garden at the greenhouse, by a waterfall

that dives into a pond of stones, splashes in

tiny ripples near reeds, and old fallen leaves,

under a red maple, as frogs call back and forth—

I hear baby birds chirp, above a vine-draped arbor,

from a tall tree with blossoms from tiny white buds,

that reaches to the height of the Conservatory

under solid blue day and a warm orange sun.

Up high on the side of the round white flowers,

I find the cradled bird’s nest. Within the dense tree,

a mockingbird mother with gray tipped black wings

jumps to safety in the middle of the tree, to observe me

with curious gold eyes, glowers and sings, a warn full

reproach, and I notice the thorns, two inches and sharp,

that surround the tree. Only a small downy white

feather, caught on the end of a thorn still wavers

with the breeze, evidence of the price to breach the tree.

Careful not to prick myself on the thorns’ tips,

I feel the soft, silk spring petals, with pink tipped

filaments, sprouts from the pale green stems of this tree,

called a Hawthorn. Cradled deep, small and round,

dark fruit begins to grow. The nest of brown twigs sleeps,

quiet, embraced by the knowledge mother bird is there,

though she has not yet returned to her babies. Above

she waits, her fluffy beige underbelly and gray fan tail

patient, lest she give away their location. Soon it is time

to go, to let the mockingbird alone in its home.

As I walk away from the full tall Hawthorn, now

it appears to resemble a small hedge or bush of green

leaves, more innocuous, less formidable. I can imagine—

once this was the Tree of Eden, in the Garden, in a place

Adam and Eve took the knowledge of good and evil.

Above the shade of the thorns, the sun shines bright over

the greenhouse, just a harmless green tree beside.

Copyright 2017 by Jennifer Elizabeth Hall

A Cat with Tattoos

A cat, casually smokes a cigar,

wears calligraphy swirls in S like curls, an artful grin,

big as a house, he ignores the little drawn man, in huge

black boots with head a-spin, like a vortex to pull him in,

who waves a finger at him when he sits down on a car

he crushes, then raises a brow at, oh well, destruction

drifts off to daydreams of sand wasteland, monochromatic

thoughts of crosses and graves like stakes and the sun

drips of blood in the sky, watches like the eye of God,

and smoke flows up to the stars.

Copyright 2017 by Jennifer Elizabeth Hall

Continuing the theme of animals, Jennifer also sent me this picture of "Charlie."

Jennifer Elizabeth Hall is a poet and artist residing in Montgomery Village, Maryland. She has a passion for art, music and literature, as well as genetics and neuroscience. She has just completed a trilogy, and awaits its publication. Her poetry has appeared in Dragonfly Arts Magazine.

Although the picture on the cover is very wintry, let's start with pianist Duke Jordan's "Flight to Denmark," the country where he lived at the time: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YYDW4KXAxIc

Another of his songs is "Flight to Japan": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulpeHmuiGYQ

The other day I was listening to some Freddie Hubbard videos, so here is his "Birdlike": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QnWRV_X5bKQ

A contemporary group, the Kamasi Washington Group, performs a version of Hubbard's "Hub Caps": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8xA3voo9v4

I'll finish with Washington's version of "Cherokee" from his recent album Epic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3DM9fGXHhlk

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Welcome to P C K Prem!

….a long poem in ten parts by p c k prem, India

OF THIS TIME

(A poetic documentary on a Modern Man)

Word is a sacred asset

on the crowded mall,

near the church ancient

of peanuts and grams roasted,

in warm winters,

as monkey on feet

extend frowning hands at visitors

colliding with lusty glances

in passions cold,

when the white man refused

to see a soul,

in bodies brown.

It was a non-existing wedge

between cultures,

of people denying man to live

in prayers with no wish,

to think of statues erected

on crowded crossings.

ii. Of this moment

A hymn a crowd sings turns into posers,

many scorpions

and temples surge with natives

thumping noisy whispers,

and it is a patchwork

of moaning prayers and grimaces,

ironic oblique looks

while disciples of monkeys’ God

prowl around munching grams,

to enact a historic scene

in a theatre of absurd gaieties.

iii. Of this obscurity

Meanings transmitted make out

lethal phantoms,

for a few moments more men, women

and children close eyes

and construct scenes,

of joyous gnomes

as if landing from the blue

on the spacious lawn;

before many vermilion painted

tall stony figures,

and form grisly rainbows

with multi-layered torsos,

spitting fire.

iv. Of this prayer

Aromatic and lightly sour bouquet,

spatter around as if

a whole beauty of earthly breast

and the world

not imagined,

opens before the eyes

and the praying forms

oblige smiles on the lips

that listen to mantras and chanting.

Tingling of bells incessantly charms

blissfully it drives silly pack

to a smoggy coma.

There the beauty of a woman

unlocks ecstasy,

to find a vacant grave

when a firm string prolongs

to exhaust fortitude

of a hungry pit.

v. Of this priest

In saffron with patches snaky

observes beauties of curves

and mumbles amorous words none hears

in solemn shades of temples.

This pundit nurses many love scenes

with the damsels,

and next moment

he looks at the huge statue of God

and sighs, groans and yet sings

rhymes of glory

with watery mouth.

vi. Of this secret

A mast of hymns bursts out

the great laughter of liking for body

as Gods look on a new prayer

composed for another,

shadowy daytime to dole out

gods bequest

after people pour whispers

at bathed feet,

the wily priest with dozens of religions

and sermons,

in extracts showers soft touches

on fair ladies

with detached looks at others.

vii. Of this pillar

A legend of a blind king

crushing a iron sculpture is born

to warn an arc idol,

the golden awning, the granite floor

and the chandeliers with huge

brass bells,

where the naked feet

the covered head and the burning flames,

remind mortals

of a bloodstained field

that appear red.

This is all I view around

and forget the ancient man

on the death bed.

As I am engaged with a pundit

to strike a bargain,

philosophy assaults the head

with blows and it bleeds,

and I run away as wicked feelings fill

an empty brain.

viii. Of this vision

Closed eyes put up images

of bloated bellies,

half smiling lips and truths in plenty

to create illusions.

And an idea emerges

to fill up a space in time.

Guilt speaks out without prompting

and I feel crushed.

Fierce little words invade

and I analyze vainly.

And a cauldron burns energies

of stirrings of gods,

while searing heat burns and re-burns

as the body refuses to agree

where tragedy occurs.

And still I derive pleasure

from the closed eyes.

ix. Of this feeling

Of hindsight, a man is just confused

hungry and thirsty.

Suffocates and yet feels relaxed

at another time.

Lips murmur a secret prayer

as eyes observe,

and eat up beauty around.

Awful experience wanders inside

with witches gory.

I wonder what I do

in the abode of God

crying for identity.

Muttering hymns in delight

of fervent fable

I cry why I close eyes.

x. Of this stage

Of ancient sin I try to materialize

a logogriph to baffle

as I revisit Mahabharata

and get relieved

when I see Bhishma

that sin is not new

and penance is primordial.

I am probably a newly born saint

of an old age in times new.

It is a classic tale of lie

and pretence in a warrior in fears

surviving in an era of deception.

Of temples filled with crowds

Ungodly,