This evening I would like to introduce Mark Antony Rossi and his poems inspired by music. Of course, he is not a novice poet, but this is his first appearance at The Song Is... Let's start with his poem "The Song Is."
The
Song Is
The
song is
mixed
up shit
made
to seem whole
but
inspiration often arrives
at
moments of desperation
and
offspring are born
not
by choice
but
by love.
Preaching to a Fine Guitar Player
Andy do not let the song
belong
to
another player,
another
disposable package
for
public consumption.
We
deserve better.
A
long cigarette drag,
a
bowl of rice,
barefoot
on the floor
baring
your soul,
unmasking
meaning
in
a life opposed
to
daring
and
dreaming.
Grant
us more
than
godless machine,
studios
wiped clean
of
blue tears
smeared on strings;
raw
fingers
amplifying
truth
out
of a cold cave
called
Life.
Andy
do not let the song
settle
in the septic tank
of
lost talent,
so
much of this world
is
already flushed.
You
deserve better.
Short Poem
for the Bluesmen
dark damp basement tavern
spotlights
a wailing bluesman
bending
n
o
t
e
s
in delightful homage
to women
of hard currency
and easy virtue.
deep copper-coloured
whiskey
makes its home in hearts
of weary
troupe players
w
o
u
n
ded
before performance;
found thirsty for
affection,
an affection
an audience
d
i
s
p
e
n
c
e
s
one drink at a time.
Birth of an Artist
once a guitar lay silent
just as a cemetery,
a slab of ghost-free wood
used to warm bones.
until a man found fingers
undressing nylon strings
some lonely evening.
his fear was full-nelsoned
and radio trembled
at the thought of music
unable to sell light beer.
Mark Antony Rossi's poetry, criticism, fiction and photography have appeared in The Antigonish Review, Another Chicago Review, Bareback Magazine, Black Heart Review, Collages & Bricolages, Death Throes, Ethical Spectacle, Gravel, Flash Fiction, Japanophile, On The Rusk, Purple Patch, Scrivener Creative Review, Sentiment Literary Journal, The Sacrificial ,Wild Quarterly and Yellow Chair Review.
Will Mayo's poems and flash fiction complement Mark Antony's pieces well while also taking us in a different direction.
Autumn Mill, 1998
by
Will Mayo
whiskey tastes good in the fall.
firewater runs down the throat,
with just the right medicinal flavor to boot.
arms move all akimbo;
mouth utters words it knows not.
days pass by amid the rustling leaves
and one man knows no slumber.
the nights, too, shall pass by
as the wild bird sings.
then time will sit in the glass
and be consumed
one by one.
The Song That Saved Our Lives
By
Will Mayo
I'll never forget that night at Cactus Flats. that country western bar up on Highway 15 outside of Frederick Md about 5 years ago. My father and I were seated there, two old school types among the bikers and the good old boys for one last beer before the time was done. Myself, however, I had had enough of the whole show. I'd drunk down the beer easy and quick-like, eager to be back to my books and the old fashioned computing machine. Some habits die hard, sad to say.
But my father held up his hand. "Wait a minute," he said.” There’s one last song to be sung before the night is done."
For it was karaoke night, time for the singalong with all good boys and girls out of tune. And one last singer remained, a young African American woman with no accompaniment, no microphone even. She stood up there in biker babe heaven as the light shined bright on her ebony face and she began to sing a sweet song of grace.
"Amazing grace," she sang. "How sweet thou art...to save a wretch like me..." And oh how well her voice filled the bar to the rafters. It was as if the angels themselves had descended from heaven for such a song.
All the bar sat in awe to hear this girl sing. Ahead in the distance, it was as if we could hear a chorus of cymbals, a mighty thunderclap from off of Cactoctin Mountain perhaps. And then she was done.
The bar was quiet for a mere handful of seconds before applause filled up the tavern and echoed down the road. I turned to my father and said, "Thanks. That was worth waiting for." "Sure thing," he replied. We headed to the car.
Not five minutes later, our little car headed out of the dusty roundabout and saw then an enormous pile of cars and trucks at the exit back onto the highway. Blinking lights and sirens lit up the night and we knew then that had we not stayed for that simple song of grace then we'd surely be at the bottom of that tumble of automotive hell. The young woman had saved our lives that summer evening. I never did learn her name.
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