Sheikha A. Returns

Tonight I'd like to welcome Sheikha A. back to The Song Is...  This first poem fits perfectly with the evening humidity.  Perhaps I ought to turn the lights off so that I can see the moon!


Auspice 

It’s hard to resist a provocation
dressed in your favourite colour;

when summers become a case
of scant apparels,

and there is never enough breeze
in the wind’s reserves to swathe

the night moon’s forehead
with a cool dampness;

I cover my body with white
thoughts from black books,

learning the speech of the tarrying
seas with its rightful pauses.

There are cliffs facing my door
sending in guests that will incubate
on cold walls;

there are trees facing my windows
bearing nests greater in number
for its branches can carry;

there are youthful evenings
that visit every moonrise
bringing promises to settle
in the pores of my garments;

and there is memory of life –

the musical shades
of your footsteps arriving –

Sphere

Life was when a baby was born
and looked up to the sky

at his home; cried the tears of a stone
yet unwritten; fell into moment’s

silence to remember the stars
he saw on the way down,

and became aware of his eyes
that had now closed to the esoteric

to have to open them later to speak
the language of aesthetics. His mind

would not be unknown to secrets
of origins, if moulded by a knower

of truths; and if he were to be
raised by a believer of fantasy,

he would learn to write on water
in a life that is about saving none

of its parchments. He would grow
fast in body, ageing faster in sight.

Unwound

Beyond where the sky rests,
I imagine a city at night,
it is large in size of land
but scantly populated,
there stands a pale walled
fort, wide and high
to house detached spirits
whose bodies have left
behind, their foreheads
wearing a dust not of earth;

aglow faces with contentment
treading no more cautiously
but freely, unhooked,
unshackled to preachments
previously hefting minds;

stirring fathomers
un-incarcerate of laws,
confident of their walk
into beckoning shadows;

they are no more unaware,
secrets of the sun -  its fire,
of the moon - its light,
every element
unconcealed,
unhazed,
punctuated.

Of course, I am going to begin with Wayne Shorter's "Infant Eyes":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KpVx1KujaRY

Fred Hersch's version of "Heartsong" follows:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czCivvnX0ME

I don't think I've posted much by Bill Evans, so here is his "Like Someone in Love":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?

v=QFoapxPvZy4

Enjoy!

Test for Ethan

Douglas Malan, Jazz, and Trains

Photo by DVS

Tonight Douglas Malan brings us back to the theme of music, specifically jazz.  

Realignment

I intended to be way up there,
Vermont, perhaps,
playing jazz
into the blue
predawn hours
sipping something strong. 

I intended to be there,
wrapped in meditative comfort
surrounded by walls of circles
possessing hot magic
in vinyl grooves and pockets.

I intended to be there,
the tick-tock of the wooden clock
marked the rhythmic electric flow
and ancient pines caked with snow
welcomed another midnight dusting
of slow, acoustic grace. 

I intended to be there,
watching from the window
speaking only when necessary
in low, liquid tones
to no one, or everybody
all of them unseen
from my den. 

I intended to be there,
but knew the velvet night
never lasts
and the sharp light changes me
agitates, enervates, misappropriates
pulls me out as I give in. 

I intended to be there,
but never went. 

Originally published in Jerry Jazz Musician.

Forged and Cast

I sit in the darkness,

eyes closed, but not asleep, 

listening for distant sound. 

Quick arrival, low hum leading 

to a mechanized rumble

and iron clacking drumbeat. 

Then, gone. 

Return to the night 

of crickets

and wisps through leaves. 

The faceless among them

hurtle into the mystery 

with industrial rhythm

powerless, hopeful.

***

I’ve been there. 

Boarded the City of New Orleans, 

northbound train #59,

Christmas season,

countryside lit up with joy and hope.

The potbelly stove and grandfather clock 

saw me off around midnight 

from Newbern, north of Memphis. 

Journey on. 

***

Low lights, scattered sleep

DuQuoin, Illinois 

God, don’t I know you well. 

Mom always held my hand tightly across Main Street, 

until she didn’t need to anymore. 

Got sick of this place, vowed never to return.

But it can’t leave me, and I love it more 

with time and distance. 

***

Black canvas, blur of light

drunk on sleeplessness

16 hours without speaking, 

I liked it that way.

Chicago, Omaha, Denver

retracing boyish steps, 

as a man. 

Breathless in Vail’s blue-haze snow

another clumsy attempt

because I didn’t belong. 

I was a connection 

between

humble farmers of dusty overalls

and jet setters of champagne baths

who will never meet. 

Every wailing train

makes me daydream.

--------------------------------

Of course, I am going to start with "Moonlight in Vermont," but this is a 1952 version with Johnny Smith on guitar and Stan Getz on tenor sax: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRNpc-hFkCs

Here is Ahmad Jamal's version from 1958: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Fqq8A61KFg

Now you have jazz in Vermont.  The Brian McCarthy Quartet plays "The Feeling of Jazz" at the Vermont Public Radio's studio:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UfL0KC_eHq4

I'll finish up with Chuchito Valdes playing at the Vermont Jazz Center: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5WfKYpTH3c

Enjoy!

Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Tonight I'd like to post some poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan.    Enjoy!  I certainly am.

Poem for a Man Who Thinks of the Children 

The crossing guard is there so  

children can cross the river Styx 

like the rest of us.

One side to the other.

Pennies over the eyes like government spending.

This man who cannot quite bring himself 

to be retired.

Two wives departed.

One through her lawyers, the second by death.

A long white beard with food in it.

And it is just a passing moment, but I see it 

sure as quarried rock. 

Any man who hates himself 

will never find the love of another.

He will curse the moon and replace the sun 

with a sky that paints ancient deserts

over electric flip phone hearts.

Belief is Better than 

Butterfat

The monk 

in orange robes

went down 

to the river.

Getting drunk

on wine

and throwing 

his poems 

upon the rocks.

If they are meant 

to find meaning 

they will find it 

without me,

the monk 

in orange robes

declared.

Before passing out 

under a banyan tree 

that offered little shelter 

from the 

rain.

One Giant Leap

There was a rooftop party 

the same day 

the jumper showed up 

prepared to take 

the plunge.

            

And he felt obliged 

to stay 

and have a few 

drinks.

Before excusing himself 

politely 

to go find 

another building.

Man Walking Three Ferrets 

I guess they’re not quite clogs, but his gait is struggling

right out of the block.

That unnatural limp of back pain 

and hidden opioid addiction.

Do not foist your various machinations upon the day, 

I must remember this, like scouting out the

hands of a clock for time.

What are intrigues if not an eye to confetti?

Certainly not this man walking three ferrets.

Three separate leads entwined into a single mess.

Blood pressure cuffs converted into black Velcro

shirts that fasten at the bottoms.

Three of them.

And many tiny wool booties of animal hosiery 

so feet forget the cold.

The rain is for wet and introspection.

With all these views, I have only seen myself.

It Could Be Worse

How the hell are we supposed to make ends meet?

she screamed from the kitchen

what about food?

what about rent?

what about...

It could be worse,

I said.

And it could be better,

she countered.

Yeah,

it could be better,

I said.

But we both knew it would 

be worse.

Soaker Tub

Out west 

we had a soaker tub

and nothing else.

No furniture

except a single rod iron chair 

in the kitchen.

Then we got a used bed 

and a dresser from the St. Vincent de Paul

and a table from the transvestite 

next door.

And we took turns with the soaker tub.

It was all we had and we enjoyed it.

Living like kings with warm cloths over our heads.

And each day 

we were back down at the employment office

looking for work.

We had our resumes out everywhere.

No one would give us anything.

In the evenings we would sit on the floor

with our bowls of rice and butter.

Beside the phone in case of call backs.

Then soak our tired feet in the tub

and go to bed.

Her with her favourite book about a time traveller

who finds love in ancient Scotland.

Myself with a biography of Claus von Stauffenberg.

And it was strange to do everything three hours

before you had always done it.

And it rained incessantly  

so that you came back home wet

but somehow smelled like fire.

No one to talk to but each other.

It was odd and cold

and ours.

De Niro

Bobby Milk

along Hester Street,

Little Italy;

all pale 

and silent 

before the driving

of taxis

and taking a dive

to get his shot

and Tribeca 

and Stella Adler

and the hours of Marmont 

with cubby hole smiles   

and Belushi 

while the Best Man in a Leading Role

fails to show,

the mean streets 

break into laughter,  

and little Marty

behind the camera

never stops

rolling.

Let's finish up with a little music.  The other day my husband and I went to hear Ultrafaux open for Anat Cohen.  Here is Ultrafaux's "North Avenue Stomp":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHAGWq2mEcs&list=PL7rSkAMVTDVcyhZlX2mIlpj3TLxtBpu23

Their "Bartender Blues" sounds like an appropriate choice as Ryan has been published in The Rye Whiskey Review:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5-8mVjKbmk&list=PL7rSkAMVTDVcyhZlX2mIlpj3TLxtBpu23&index=7

The Comet is Coming's "Summon the Fire" makes for a good change of pace: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G55GspnNkBo

I'll finish with their "Start Running": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7Px2wK10jg

Welcome to Mike Griffith!

Above is a picture of the ruins of Johnny Cash's home in Hendersonville, TN.  It's a wintry picture, but the poem below is worth reading at any time.

Listening to Johnny Cash with my friend Arthur

Listening to Johnny Cash with my friend Arthur
in his room at the nursing home--

I can only understand about every third word
that Arthur says, but it's alright,

Johnny says enough for any three men. 

On Tour with The Mighty Commas

(For a different Ian than the one I know.)

Watch the guitar, watch the guitar;

feel the drums, feel the drums.

Grinding light, deafening roar,

singer dance, smoky swirl,

push of sound, crush of crowd.

The stage is wet, the stage is steam.

Strung-out, happy and glazed.

The Mighty Commas are on tour, 

their greatest hits, controversies, and memories:

minors with backstage passes,

a Friendly's somewhere in Ohio, 

and that wreaked hotel bar in Oakland.

The next city, some other city

the next state over, under altered skies.

Got this lady, but gonna get that girl. 

Do it again, doin' it dirty, doin' it clean,

comma, man, comma, comma, comma, man.

Watch the guitar, watch the guitar.

Michael A. Griffith began writing poetry while recovering from a life-changing injury and its resulting disability. His chapbook Bloodline will be released in fall 2018 by The Blue Nib and his chapbook Exposed from Hidden Constellation Press is available on Amazon and Soma Publishing. He is a 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee.  Recently, he became the US/Canada Poetry Editor at The Blue Nib.  

Exposed paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Exposed-Poetry-Michael-Griffith/dp/1724075535/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1540273560&sr=8-2-fkmr1&keywords=exposed+michael+a+griffit

Exposed eBook: https://www.somapublishing.com/2018/10/exposed.html

Michael’s website: https://michaelgriffithwordpress.wordpress.com/

I'll start off with a more recent song by Johnny Cash, "Hurt":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vt1Pwfnh5pc

This is his "God's Gonna Cut You Down":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJlN9jdQFSc

A younger Johnny Cash sings "Far Side Banks of Jordan" with June Carter Cash: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpM9nZwNJlo

Welcome to John L. Stanizzi!

Many of you may know John L. Stanizzi for his current POND series, four-line acrostic poems that have appeared in Verse-Virtual, Amethyst Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, and most recently One-Sentence Poems.  Here are some longer poems, meditations on feathers, bones, and the natural world.

FEATHERS AND BONES

                                              I thought of the coarse white flesh

                                              packed in like feathers,

                                              the big bones and the little bones…

                                              -The Fish

                                              -Elizabeth Bishop 

Banking around the yard, arms straight across,

airplane wings, bombs dropping on the cities

miles down, in alliance with my tank-feet,

and the sounds we are born with, the wailing

airplane noises, the shells’ piercing whistles.

d

Or in the river, raising up one arm,

in an attitude reminiscent of

a striking cobra.  But this no snake;

it’s a periscope searching for its foe,

the sub of my body cruising for war.

d

Either way, there is no “settling for” here

among gliding flashes of winged silver, 

avian cosmopolitans, or the

cormorants crashing and crashing into

the bight, flight becoming an ancient stroke.

d

Whether hollow or light as a feather,

bones’ roads intersect, cross paths, bring us all

together in bewilderment between

sky and the ocean, adapting, dreaming,

becoming what we’ve witnessed, what we’ve loved.

d

Birds entered the sea; fish have gone ashore,

their imperceptible seeking after

water or air to swaddle in safety,

or its illusion, the living creatures

with bones like feathers and feathers like bones.

d

Banking around the yard, arms straight across

in an attitude reminiscent of

avian cosmopolitans, or the

sky and the ocean, adapting, dreaming

of bones like feathers and feathers like bones.

BONES AS FEATHERS

                           -O yes, our lives are going on without us.

                           -O no, we never finish chasing.

                           -Hidden Drives

                           -James Tate from Absences

James Tate and I were dear friends, though we never met.

I called on his wisdom when the two lovers met.

The landscape would grow more strange as the weather cooled.

Remember November’s kiss; lips shivering, met.

The city was charming and the years passed as air.

We would sit on the hill where sky and river met.

Were we so blind we couldn’t see the snow or rain?

Were we deaf -- couldn’t hear when fear and weather met?

Father of a small city, my back is aching,

even now, when morning denies endeavors met.

My bones have become feathers; they’re the weight of light,

and from shade one comes to harvest all pleasure met. 

James would joke that our lives will go on without us.

Don’t ever pretend, John, that you two never met.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

This very short piece is violinist David Schulman's improvisation, "Music at the Canopy," performed in the Chicago studio of artist Tina Tahir: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UtrPTpMyqT4

"Anhinga" is a longer piece by Schulman's group Quiet Life Motel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pB-rBbbHuJU

I'll add two more songs, taking the music in a different direction.  The first is Gary Burton's version of "Chega de Saudade":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHR3F7vp1uc

The next is a version of "The Moontrane" with Larry Young and Woody Shaw:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LnIWn2kqHsY

Enjoy!