Poetry is International!

This evening I thought I'd post a number of translations of Catfish McDaris' poems by various poets and native speakers.  Enjoy!

Catfish McDaris Poems Translated

Aida

She is always there

my only true love forever

her smile is my soul.

61 Winters

Some people live hard

and write about it. Some 

write about what they think

It is to live hard. I think it's 

easy to distinguish the phonies 

from the real thing. 

Age does not mean wisdom, 

it does mean history though. 

To write well you have to have

courage, curiosity, and tenacity.

California

Dance during summer

making love to the raindrops

farmers smile at crops.

We All Go Away Like an Echo of Sad Laughter

As I age I no longer wipe

away the tears, neither does

God, we watch the hungry

on the church steps searching

in the dirty melting snow.  

Poems Translated into Yoruba by Prince Adewale Oreshade from Nigeria

Aida

Ibe lo ma n wa ni gbogbo igba

Ololufe mi kàn soso titilai lai

Erin re ni okan mi.

61 Winters

Awon kàn ngbe igbesi aiye inira

Won de ma fi ko nipare. Awon kàn 

Si ma n ko owun ti won ro

Wipe oje igbesi aiye inira. Aba mi

Ni wipe irorun laaje lati mo iyato

Awon ofente ati awon ti oyanju.

Ojo ori otumosi oye,

Sugbon ole tumosi itan.

Latile ko dada, eyan gbodoni.

Akikanju, ojumito, ati ifarada.

California

Jo nigba orun

Somo omi ojo

Erin agbe si irugbin.

Poems Translated into Chinese by Changming Yuan from China

Aida

爱达

她总是无时不在

我唯一永恒的真爱

其笑容乃我之灵魂

61 Winters

六十一个冬季

有些人生活艰辛 

而用笔抒写。有些人

则笔耕之所思

生活必然艰辛。我想

很容易将伪善

区别于真实。

年龄并不等于智慧

但它却意味着历史。

要写出佳作就必须有

勇气、好奇心及坚韧精神。

California

加利福尼亚州

在夏日翩翩起舞

与雨滴做爱正酣

农夫对着庄稼微笑。

Poems Translated into Arabic by Ali Znaidi from Tunisia

Translated into French by Eric Dejaeger from Belgium

                                                                        Aïda

                       

                                                   Elle est toujours présente

                                                    mon seul véritable amour éternel.                   

     son sourire est mon âme.

                                                                      61 hivers

                                                     Certaines personnes ont une vie dure

                                                     et en parle dans leurs écrits. Certaines

                                                     écrivent sur ce qu'elles pensent

                                                     qu'est une vie dure. Je pense qu'il est

                                                     facile de distinguer les imposteurs

                                                     de la véritable chose.

                                                     L'âge ne signifie pas la sagesse,

                                                     il signifie vraiment l'histoire cependant.

                                                     Pour bien écrire tu dois avoir

                                                     courage, curiosité, et ténacité.

                                                                  Californie

                                                        Danse pendant l'été

                                                        faire l'amour aux gouttes de pluie

                                                        les fermiers sourient aux récoltes.

Translated into Spanish by Aida Elizabeth McDaris from Mexico

Aida

Ella siempre esta ahi

mi unico amor por la eternidad

su sonrisa es mi alma.

61 Inviernos

Algunes gentes tiener una vida dificil

y escriben acerca de ella

otros escriben lo que piensan

Tener una vida dura creo que es

facil distinguir a los

falsos de los autenticos

Edad no significa sabiduria

pero quire decir historia

para ser un buen escritor

tienes que tener, valentia,

curiosidad y tenacidad.

California

Baila en el verano

haciendo amor a las

gotas de agua

los campesinos sonrien

a sus casechas.

Translated into Bangla by Nilimesh Dutta from India

Aida

আইডা

শুধু

তোমাকেই ভালবেসেছি সারাজীবন

তোমার হাসি আমার আলো

61 Winters

৬১ টা শীত

কিছু লোক রগড়ায়

আর সেটা নিয়ে লেখে। কিছু লোক

লেখে কল্পনায়।

বেঁচে থাকবার কষ্টটা করতে হয়।

আমি খুব সহজেই সং দের

আসল জিনিসটা থেকে আলাদা করতে পারি।

বয়স মানে বোধ নয়,

ইতিহাসও নয়।

লিখতে গেলে তোমার থাকতে হবে

সাহস, কৌতুহল আর লেগে থাকা।

California

ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া

গ্রীষ্মের নাচ

বৃষ্টিফোঁটার সঙ্গে ভালোবাসা

চাষিরা ফসলের দিকে তাকিয়ে হাসছে

We All Go Away Like an Echo of Sad Laughter

As I age I no longer wipe away the tears, neither does God, we watch the hungry on the church steps searching in the dirty melting snow.  

আমরা সবাই কষ্টের হাসির একটা প্রতিধ্বনির মত চলে যাব

যত বুড়ো হচ্ছি, কান্নাগুলো আর মুছতে পারিনা, (ঈশ্বরটাও পারেনা), আমরা শুধু দেখে যাই গির্জার সিঁড়িতে নোংরা বরফ খুঁটে যায় খিদে।  

Catfish McDaris poems translated into Polish by Piotr Siwecki from Poland

Aida

She is always there

my only true love forever

her smile is my soul.

Aida

Zawsze tu jest

moja jedyna na zawsze prawdziwa miłość

jej uśmiech jest moją duszą.

61 Winters

Some people live hard

and write about it. Some 

write about what they think

It is to live hard. I think it's 

easy to distinguish the phonies 

from the real thing. 

Age does not mean wisdom, 

it does mean history though. 

To write well you have to have

courage, curiosity, and tenacity.

61 zim

Niektórzy żyją ostro

i piszą o tym. Niektórzy

piszą o tym, co, ich zdaniem,

Znaczy żyć ostro. Myślę sobie, że

łatwo odróżnić ściemę

od prawdziwego życia.

Starość nie musi iść w parze z mądrością,

ale to jednak kawał historii.

Żeby dobrze pisać, potrzebujesz

odwagi, ciekawości i wytrwałości.

California

Dance during summer

making love to the raindrops

farmers smile at crops.

Kalifornia

Tańcząc latem

kochając się z kroplami deszczu

farmerzy uśmiechają się do plonów.

In addition, here is a link to Catfish's reading on Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram's BlogTalk radio show:  http://www.blogtalkradio.com/dc-poetry-project-/2015/04/16/the-power-of-poetics-welcomes-internationally-acclaimed-poet-catfish-mcdaris

Unfortunately, I could not listen to the whole show as the Shockwave on my computer crashed.

If you are online at 8 pm on Wednesday, April 29, Changming and Allen Yuan will be the next guests on The Power of Poetics.

At 8 PM Eastern Time on April 29th

Bridging Cultures featuring Guest Poets Dr. Yuan Changming and Allen Qing Yuan

In honor of World Poetry Day (March 21, 2015), the host and staff of the Power of Poetics Blogtalk Show are proud to announce that the world's most widely published poetry author, Dr. Yuan Changming and his celebrated son, Allen Qing Yuan will be the featured guest poets on the Wednesday, April 29, 2015 broadcast. The show will also feature other poets from around the globe. Renown Poet Catfish McDaris will serve as co-host of the program. Yuan Changming,an 8-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and author of 4 chapbooks, is the world's most widely published poetry author who speaks Mandarin but writes English. Since his first poem was published in mid-2005, Changming's poetry has appeared in 1019 literary publications across 32 countries, including Best Canadian Poetry (2009,12,14), BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine and Threepenny Review. With a PhD in English from the University of Saskatchewan, Yuan currently tutors and co-edits Poetry Pacific with his teenage poet son Allen Qing Yuan in Vancouver, British Columbia. Allen Qing Yuan, born in Vancouver in 1995, is a two time Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of Traffic Light (2013). Co-editing Poetry Pacific, Allen currently attends the University of British Columbia as a business major. Since grade 10, Allen has had poetry appearing in more than 70 literary publications across 16 countries, which include Cordite Poetry Review, Literary Review of Canada, Shampoo, and Spillway. poetrypacific.blogspot.ca 

 The FREE call-in number is (646) 716-8754. We may be physically located in Washington DC, but our love for poetry is worldwide! If there are questions, please call the DC Poetry Project Office at 202-540-0327 or email letpoetryring@gmx.com.

(by Dr. Yuan Changming) 

移民

为从你母语的豪强逻辑

逃出生天

你徘徊，再徘徊

穿越地球的长度和宽度

将你的旧我，交付于另一种语法

另一整套对你的嘴唇和笔尖

都很陌生的语法规则

从而扩展你心灵的地图

远远超出家庭和避风港

然而，在此期间，它却成为

这个所选语言一切令人费解之

悖论的殖民地，例如：

快沙流可能会很慢

拳击圈实是方形

而几内亚豚既不是猪

也不是来自几内亚

一如你和我

Immigration

To escape from the tyrannical logic
Of your mother tongue
You wandered, wandering
Through earth’s length and breadth
Subjecting your old self to another syntax
A whole set of grammatical rules
Strangely new to your lips and tips
To expand the map of your mind
Far beyond your home and haven
Yet in the meantime it becomes colonized
By all the puzzling paradoxes
Of this chosen language, for example:
Quicksand can be very slow
Boxing rings are in fact square
And a guinea pig is neither a pig
Nor is it from Guinea
Like you or me

I'll finish up with a little (international) music for you.

Mulatu Astatke begins with Tezeta (Nostalgia).  This version is on an album dating from the late 1960s/early 1970s:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wy-v-FgiUD8

This video is of a more recent performance in New York: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5HNXytisOM

This song was written by Mulatu Astatke, but it is performed by Dengue Fever: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pq6OJixIU2Y

Dengue Fever is more well known for its covers of Cambodian pop from the 1960s and 1970s: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dsRKo6PWLA

Here is the original Cambodian pop -- Ros Sereysothea's "Flowers in the Rain": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_0fxMIzFN0

Poetry by Donal Mahoney

Photo by Carol Bales

This evening I'd like to welcome poet Donal Mahoney to The Song Is...  I've enjoyed many of his poems at Poppy Road Review, The Camel Saloon, and elsewhere, so it's wonderful to see him here as well.

Even though it is no longer winter (despite the cold), I hope that you will enjoy Donal's "Feline in Winter":

Feline in Winter

Some days you think the cat will stay till summer comes, 

this Prodigal Son you've fed for years, this feral cat

who comes and goes and comes again when hunger strikes. 

But he just eats and leaves your porch, 

despite the pillows plumped for a Sultan’s duff. 

He disappears in falling snow 

only to appear again outside your door at dawn, 

his green eyes dancing when he sees you bring 

his mound of kibble, topped with tuna, 

and his bowl of milk. Some days he mounts  

the pillows for a nap. At noon, however, 

he begins to yowl. He wants out again 

to parade triumphant down the walk, 

his tail an exclamation point. He romps 

across the snow and fits beneath the fence. 

He's gone again. Out of sight.

He plans to spend another evening  

where the feral cats hold services.  

They yowl and fight and copulate 

till hunger strikes and then 

this Prodigal Son comes back and sits 

outside your door with tail wound round

and waits for you to bring his kibble,

topped with tuna, and his bowl of milk.

Then, he's gone again. Out of sight.

Donal Mahoney

Miss Carol's Dumplings

Every month or so

on a Sunday afternoon

I skip the football game

and get in my truck

and drive out from the city

into farm country

to visit Miss Carol

and get my hands

on her plump dumplings.

Biggest I've ever seen.

Best I've ever had,

terrific with her

legs and thighs.

When she lays out 

her chicken dinner  

on that white tablecloth

I start drooling before

I even get a hand on it.

A farm girl, she says 

she's never met 

a man like me

so nuts am I

about her dumplings.

Usually, she says,

men like breast meat,

when it's moist,

and I allow how I

like that as well

but not as much 

as her plump dumplings

on a Sunday afternoon

and her pluperfect

legs and thighs

Donal Mahoney

——————————————————

Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had fiction and poetry published in print and online publications in the U.S. and elsewhere. Among them are The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, The Galway Review (Ireland), The Osprey Journal (Wales), Public Republic (Bulgaria), and The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey).

Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com

Here is some swing for you to inspire some poems for the spring contests.  The first song is Count Basie's version of "Moten Swing":  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjuUYa7JLso

I'd like to dig up a video of an "all-girl orchestra."  This is Thelma White and her All-Girl Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3YzZEdakEa4

The International Sweethearts of Rhythm appear to be a more serious band: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WczP3PyHt20
For more information about them, see this link: http://matineeatthebijou.blogspot.com/2009/08/all-girl-bands-international.html

The Tricity Vogue All Girl Swing Band is a contemporary group:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tqBTKTgHG_M

Enjoy!  The orchestra pictured below is Thelma White's.

Flash Fiction and Poem by Will Mayo

Tonight I'd like to continue the spring offerings by posting some flash fiction and poetry by Maryland poet Will Mayo.  His stories provide something for every mood.

The Talk

By

Will Mayo


The thing Joan loved about her Alfred (whom she always called Alf, it was her pet name for him) was his talk. The way sentences tended to fall from his mouth like salmon on their return to their spawning grounds. Or like the ocean tides, if you will, under the pull of that mighty moon in the night sky. Sometimes Alfred would let loose whole reams of Greek grammar during a night’s lovemaking, and upon reaching that penultimate moment, would cry out, “Ah, Aeschylus!” It was a picture that his students never saw during his unending lectures (he often went over the appointed time, not that his pupils ever minded). Not that she would ever tell, she thought with a slight smile tilting her lips. About that and all other matters she was as quiet as a titmouse.

Even after his early onset prostate cancer necessitated an end to their earthly delights, his words filled her up in ways his sizeable rod no longer could. They entered through every orifice, whether ear or lips or into that sacred place so central to every marriage. He had a gift for words that no man, save himself, could ever master.

But then late one autumn evening, her own Professor Eckstein was lying there in bed, repeating the brave Ulysses’s oratory to himself in a fitful slumber, when a terrible stroke struck him speechless as blood flowed from his nose and tears streamed from his eyes. Joan, taken with his suffering, held his thin body in her arms and shook him, saying “What, Alf? No talk?” over and over again as his mouth opened and closed in useless attempts to utter a single word. Then as he slipped from her grasp and his head hit the floor, he died without a single vowel to call his own.

Finally, at the funeral Mass when his body lay there in his casket surrounded by all of the Prof Eckstein’s dissertations, his widow Joan was asked to say a few words about her dearly departed. Ever so shy about the matter, she approached the lectern with one slow shuffling step after another, and then parted her lips whereupon the hesitation of the gathered mourners, the formerly quiet lady from Plymouth uttered a surprise thesis on the life of her beloved. She gave forth chapters on their courtship in the schoolyards of Harvard followed by a volume or two on the birth of their firstborn son. The congregation sat speechless while she gave forth whole libraries on the subject of their life together and then too centuries’ worth of scholarship concerning Professor Eckstein’s theories on arcane civilizations and here and there a shelf on the birth of Atlantis or the sacking of Rome. When at last the dowdy woman left the podium, the assembled gathering left aside the decorum of the moment, took to their feet and, one after another, cried out, “Bravo! Bravo!” It was as if the old Eckstein spirit was back among them. And who was to say that Alfred himself was not then roaming the halls of the giant cathedral ready to talk the good talk all over again?

Last Gasp

by

Will Mayo

I had to listen,

one foot on the ground,

to a friend's burial ground.

It had a ticking sound

like the sound of a clock

which has eased past its final hour.

It had the brushing of leaves

upon autumn's last wind.

Or perhaps

the scraping of hands

upon flesh and bone.

Waiting just one final second

for one more life.

When at last I turned away

from this,

his final resting place in the sand,

I,well, I could've sworn.

Was it the tap of an ill-breath'd wind?

Was it Stephen's last gasp upon his grave?

Or was it the rope,

one mile away,

still swinging in a foul air?

I knew not.

And yet I wonder.

For the wind blows still.

EDGE OF NIGHT


The sun rests upon the horizon, just below Luna’s golden disk, and rabbits, squirrels (birds, too) have departed for their sleep, leaving the raven, that otherworldly creature, to issue its final call.  The hosts of the house have departed for their evening stroll, as the man below, deep in the confines of that hollowed room, begins to stir.

He opens his eyes, stares out at the canopy of night beyond the basement shutter and begins that awful stroll once more.  Back and forth with the pace of one who is quite unwound; then, at last, one foot after another upon the stairs he begins to wander.

When he places himself under the moon’s old glare, he grins that old yellow nicotine smile.  It is time to dream.

THE NIGHT

By

Will S. Mayo


There’s something about the night that gets in my blood, gets me going like no other time of the day can.  It’s the fall of footsteps on a hardwood floor, creaky with age, of a soul trying vainly to wake up the dead (as if he could); it’s a night owl’s hoot at the passersby; it’s a lover’s sigh on a pillow left untended by time.  And, oh, yes, it’s these, too: staying awake all night, cowering by a candle or a night lamp while held in suspense by the horror of a ghost story, told one last time; tossing and turning in a dream that transports one to a kingdom won and lost for the sake of a bride unencumbered by the serpent at the door; and, of course, waking up to a bleary-eyed dawn that only Michelangelo or Leonardo Da Vinci could imagine in all its beauty.   Damn it, I do love that night.




The Raven

by

Will S. Mayo


The raven swoops down from the sky much as an eagle or a falcon might do in the wild, save that the raven’s own wilderness is the stand of trees and bushes existing amongst the countless A-frames of suburbia.  His prey all that would try to survive the devils of 5 o’clock road traps and bureaucrats whose pastime is a mousetrap or two.  The bird dips down into the trees, rustling branches around him.  He is out of his habitat, yet quite at home among the orioles and robins that form the lens for the watchers at soccer mom matches and kids whose only act of violence is the Saturday morning cartoons.

The bird seizes first a bluejay’s offspring, driving his beak deep into the throat of a crying chick before dropping her into the customary bath to soften up tomorrow’s dinner.  Next up, a field mouse is swallowed whole by a passing dip of the predator’s wings.  While the bugs that dwell between the grasses and bushes that Old Man Rogers just trimmed make a fine after dinner snack.

When the raven’s belly is full and he finds himself somehow content to let the sparrow pass before him he lifts his purple-black body to the sky and lets out a mighty “Caw!” that sends even the hardiest crow scurrying in his wake.

All are silent before the sentinel’s watchful eye.  In the distance the sun sets on the rows of trees making their last stand before the bulldozer.  A paper shuffles in the wind and then becomes still.

Notes On A Man Made Mad

By

Will S. Mayo


His light shined with a certain brilliance, like the comet that lit the way for William’s conquering armies or perhaps, if you would have it, the moons of Jupiter on a starlit evening when all the world should ponder the mysteries of the universe.  He dined at the finest cafes, wore the most dapper clothes, published in the best journals of the day.  All the town fathers loved him and looked to him for advice whenever a problem should arise.  For the man had a fancy to him, that could not be denied.  The way, for instance, he would sit out of doors at some table with a bottle of Chardonnay making a toast to the passersby.  And, taking pen in hand would compose a sonnet to a matron across the way.  Or maybe a tale fit to be told to an audience of his betters.  He could not help but be acclaimed by the counsel of his peers.

And then…something happened.  His clothes became ragged, his speech full of filthy words, the words on his sheet filled with ill sounding rhymes.  It was not so much as if his light had become extinguished as, rather, tarnished by some inner demon which no one could understand.  The town fathers tired of him, as did the matrons who had once graced his table.


Finally, when someone inquired as to what had become of him, he turned his eyes to the faraway sky, eyed the spires and minarets of the city and a crow, which flew to the last horizon.  “What matters is not where I’ve been but where I’ve yet to go.”  With that, he turned his back and spoke no more as the stars of the evening sank into the sea.

Let me post some music before the thunderstorm comes too close.

As it turns out, Ahmad Jamal's "Poinciana" means song of the trees, and you find quite a few trees in Will Mayo's work:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cytUz9KkK9M

Here is his Swahiland:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMS9SGtIy6g

I also want to add some women in jazz.  I will feature Billie Holiday tonight as her 100th birthday was just the other day.

Let's start with her "Gloomy Sunday":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUCyjDOlnPU&index=1&list=PLd9lCAsBE0w4M4Hx1c0Xb6ohboVuNRPRk

This "Good Morning Heartache" is live: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvDZOX9IdKs

I'll finish with her "Solitude": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4eXV1FYNc4

Jerry A. Scuderi's Pet Poems

Spring is truly with us, I realized this evening as my husband and I willingly sat outside.  So I'd like to post some more spring poems--before it is summer once again.


Yellow Bird

Come to me , oh yellow bird ;
awake me to the dew .
Dart among the dawn beams ;
escort life anew .

Yellow bird fleet and flighty ;
speak to me your chattered tones .
Play upon the air and light ;
bring delights ; this life’s on loan .

Descend from a perch on tree top ;
to effortless of wing .
Spatter out my feed crop ;
mousse headed thing .

Flit to me striped black wing ;
whit of feathered friends .
To melodies you dance and sing ;
a song will you lend ?

Share with me your confidence ;
your carefree life secure .
I’ll be watching for your hints ;
tomorrow’s cares aren’t yours .
　
Jerry A. Scuderi 6-23-12

Working for Carrots

I'm a drop footed bunny man, a costumed clown.
I get wide eyed little ones wondering around.

In this bubble head, I'm air and vision bound.
I don't fret of getting lost ; I'll be found.

Molly Mae the toddler follows me around.
I'm up so high and she's way down.

Who's that? Billy Bob's tugging on my fur!
He wants candy; I hear " please sir ".

Cindy Lou spies me from way over there.
She perks up, looks about, but won't leave her chair.

Clueless Michael John is sleeping instead.
I'd bend to him, but I'll loose my head.

I'm a mammoth fuzzy cotton tail, a candy bequeath-er.
They'll be off to sleep soon; I’d so love a breather.

Sleepy eyed and mystified, toddlers say thanks.
They'll cry when I leave . . . Oh, . . . and I don't go in banks.
　
Jerry A.Scuderi March 28, 2012

Abigail


Tabby cat, pretty cat, siamese mix come here kitty and do some tricks.
Here kitty, nice kitty, come to me. Can I hold you? Give us glee.
Here kitty, play kitty; fetch the ball. Jump and whirl, be fun for all.
　
I’m shy and afraid; I’ve been mistreated. I’ll run from you if I am greeted.
You’ll not touch me; I peek around corners. I do not play and I’m not a joiner.
Tabby cat, pretty cat, siamese mix come here kitty and do some tricks.

I’ve chosen my mistress; she’s real sweet. We’re off to bed where we both will sleep.
Her pillow is mine throughout the day; then I move to the foot so she can lay.
Here kitty, nice kitty, come to me. Can I hold you? Give us glee.
　
I’m a serious "little girl", brown, white, and peach, the mind of me you can not reach.
My man is gentle. When I need rub-in’; I go to him to get some love-in’.
Here kitty, play kitty; fetch the ball. Jump and whirl; be fun for all.
　
A more "perfect lady" you will not met. Load my plate and I will not eat.
I like small portions; then after grace ; I’ll wash my hands and then my face.
Tabby cat, pretty cat, siamese mix come here kitty and do some tricks.
　
Run kitty, hide kitty; don’t you fret. The sound of voices is all you’ll get.
Tabby cat, big girl had you times alone ?
Calm and relax now , . . . you’ve found a home .

　Jerry A. Scuderi October 6, 2011

SOGGY DOGGIE

Doggie, Doggie, bark, bark, yip , yip , yelp .

Lightings flash, thunders crash ; a beagle calls help .

A thunderstorm is all about, and you’re not going free .

Get in your house, and quiet down, and stop waking me !

You broke your leash and ran all day. You delighted in your roam .

You stayed and played with neighbor kids, and then came home .

In this summer’s blackness, thunder has arrived .

It shakes our bones; I’m glad we’re home; feel torrent from the sky .

This rain’s caught sniffer on a baking night .

Hurricane with its rains, tossed her to fright .

Silky coated yip-er , you quiet down, doggie .

You’ve mid-night woke me now, and I’m foggy .

I’ve dried your head, you’re garaged and fed , get to my chair .

Your lonely eyes give quiet smiles, but don’t bark you dare !

Lights are found, soaked is ground, drip, drip, drip .

Lay down with quiet sounds; to sleep we’ll slip .

Quiet doggie, hush doggie ; don’t you peep .

Serenity is sweet to me; and . . . we need our sleep !

　

Jerry A. Scuderi July 14, 2011

Pizza Pup

There is a pizza sitting on the table soft and round .

Aroma fair fills the air ; it's found a hungry hound .

There's no table guests but pizza's left sitting there .

Sausage bound doggie found ; soon to be going down .

　

Lilly , the hound looks around . There is a scent in the air .

Pepperoni disc neatly fits her jaws and her lips .

Don't leave your pizza on a table near a hungry hound .

She's sure to sniff , back paws lift ; good bye party sounds .

This hungry hound searches 'round nose at the ready .

With master gone , this little pawn is set , poised , and steady .

Thirty something brought in this bumpkin from the cold outdoors .

He washed her hair with love and care to party with his Coors .

Shocked, surprised ; disappointment rise ; " you ate it doggie " !

Tomato Lips shows bacon chips ; "Your future is foggie" !

"Out of my chair  to the chilly air ; you pizza greeter " .

"There you’ll stay ; it’s the price you’ll pay". "You three meat defeater" .

Floppy Ears went to tears ; dragging deli belly .

Outside she goes , to a nap she’ll doze , smiling and pizza smelly !

Jerry A. Scuderi 01-10-14

I hope that you'll enjoy these lighter, pet poems.  Here is some music to go with the poems:

The Charlie Parker Septet's version of "Orinthology" represents the birds:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DEeISJ0wr48

John Coltrane actually made an album with Tommy Flanagan and Kenny Burrell called The Cats.  The song below is "Minor Mishap," which also fits "Pizza Pup":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAhal_-lNdI

I'm also going to include "Tommy's Tune," also from The Cats:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mTXc6Bt2Sm4

I had to go to Thailand to find jazz dogs:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7MkswCFRTUQ

Of course, there is always Big Mama Thornton's "Hound Dog":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yoHDrzw-RPg

Contests for the Spring/Summer

As I walked home from school this afternoon past all the sounds, sights, and scents of spring, I realized that I need to post information about our ongoing and upcoming contests.  Also, I need to post more poems, but that is another story.


However, as promised, I am holding two contests this spring/summer.  The first is for poems and flash fiction inspired by women in music.  These women can be in any genre (although jazz is preferable).  They may be singers, instrumentalists, or composers.  I would like to see more instrumentalists.  Poems may be biographical, or the woman's music may be simply a starting point for your poem.  Here are some pictures and songs to start you off.

You may prefer to listen to music, so here are a few songs for you.  I'll start with Fanny's "Blind Alley": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6ICOC7Ymug

Let's listen to the jazz harpist Dorothy Ashby's "Aeolian Groove": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTwhqofXMkM

Here Helen Sung and her trio perform "Shall We Tango?"  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GyLmcLbt2Cw

The second contest is for poetry and flash fiction inspired by swing music--which can be 1940s swing, Texas swing, swing revival, or New Jack Swing.  Below are some songs to inspire you:

"Sing Sing Sing" is a great place to start: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TIoTpeM6o2A

Or you may prefer some of Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys' version of (Texas) swing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0WSlskCq9Qk

Now it's time for some Nineties Nostalgia with the Squirrel Nut Zippers:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLYB9pvww2M

In addition, Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram of the DC Poetry Project and I may be coming up with some prompts for you.  You may also choose to perform your poem on one of his BlogTalk Radio shows.  Here is a link to a recent show featuring Brenda Bunting:  http://www.blogtalkradio.com/dc-poetry-project-/2015/02/05/the-power-of-poetics-blogtalk-show-welcomes-poet-and-author-brenda-bunting-1 .

By the way, the recent show featuring prize-winning poet Catfish McDaris is here:  http://www.blogtalkradio.com/dc-poetry-project-/2015/04/16/the-power-of-poetics-welcomes-internationally-acclaimed-poet-catfish-mcdaris

The poem that you submit may be unpublished or published.  Just be sure that you have the rights to it.  Let me know where it was published, and I will credit that journal or book.

The deadline for the spring contests is July 31.  I will publish the poems as I receive them!  Please send them to thesongis@gmail.com -- thank you!

All poems published since Jerry A. Scuderi and Juan Tituana's Winter Wonderland are eligible for the Spring Contests as long as they meet the requirements for the Women in Music and the Swing into Spring Contests.  Any poem published since Winter Wonderland and received by me by July 31 is eligible for Thelma's Prize.

By Gary Malone (Warning: Explicit Language)

                                                                         

This evening I'd like to post Alabama poet Gary Malone's "Young, Black, and Unarmed..." as part of the Mourning and Memory contest.  I've heard Gary read on Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram's BlogTalk Radio show, and the poem below adds much to the contest.

Young, Black and Unarmed…

Excuse me as I momentarily swallow my sorrow and

Redirect the energy of my pain

Having shifted my focus to blot out

The outpouring of mourning tears

After mornings of pouring down pouring rain

Parents grieving over their sons untimely demise

Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, Eric Grander, Trayvon Martin, Sean Bell

While we wait on change

Tell me how and when a change is gonna come

Only through bluesy folk’s songs?

It’s difficult to not agree with 2Pac

And want to sodomize the police

Especially if grand juries keep on gang raping justice

No felony charges, misdemeanor or even probation, really?!

I understand all cops are not brutal

But police brutality does not seem

Impartial to the victims it choose

Young, black and unarmed

What must we do America to protect our

Young, gifted and black

We all are aware racism, inequality and injustice exits

Yet so does time, love and unity

Should we take the time to co-exist by

The commandment the Creator has already written

Love thy neighbor as you love thyself

Love is about unity and the advancement of spiritual health

War is about destruction and inevitable death

On this current battlefield

How do we honor our fallen comrades?

As victims of bias malice or as martyrs of change

To bring about equality within our judicial system

And an end to all police brutality 

When do we march, protest and react

Re-enact or implement new laws?

The day after witnessing another young victim

Of a wrongful police fatality.

By: Gary Malone Dec. 10, 2014 © 2014 

Gary's bio follows:

Gary L. Malone, l am a lifelong resident of Athens/Limestone County,  Alabama.  I have been writing since 2003. I write poetry, spoken words commentaries, short poetic stories on various topics,  social issues, religious,  love, comedy, etc. Along with writing,  I enjoy teaching the Word of God,  cooking, listening to music and spending time with family and friends. I also love to laugh. Two words to describe this Leo, creative and thoughtful. I thank God for my gift and every opportunity to share it.

To close this evening, I am going to post a video of "Miles Runs the Voodoo Down" from his Bitches Brew album: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1a1Ph-ioxoA

Although I've posted this video before, I want to include Ambrose Akinmusire's "My Name Is Oscar": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=66fmwQShgYg

I'll conclude with Akinmusire's "As We Fight": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=093kCKk-Jcw