Welcome to PS Perkins!

This evening I'd like to post some poems by a DC-area poet, PS Perkins, who has led at least one workshop at Writers on the Green Line.  I hope that she will lead another this spring/summer!

DIRECTION

She beckons me to the land of ancestral knowing,

willows whispering my name

claiming their own.

Come home! Come HOME!

There’s work to be done.

No hoeing

No planting

No chopping

No sifting

No cooking…

Just RE-MEM-BER-ING yourself 

to ourselves

to help themselves 

BE-come ONE!

PS Perkins, Poet

Greenline Writers Workshop

Summer 2018

The next poems are from her "Trilogy Called Life."

Photograph by Jorobec

RUBBISH

Urban streets filled with the economic refuse of 

tattered souls seeking solace  

from littered and embittered lives. 

Preyed upon by money hungry, 

power craving forces of sanctioned ineptitude 

created to keep the mentacide machine of human waste fed.

They shuffle, they schlep, they drink, they drag 

along the cracks of life designed to trip and snare

those besieged by despair.

How can we be our brother’s keeper 

when they've become the street sweepers we refuse to pay? 

Wasted minds filled with discordant voices of who they are not. 

Drowning out inspiration 

long since exchanged for futile aspirations 

never to be realized while wading through 

the cesspool of residue called re-member me?

Photograph by Yanping Nora Soong

PERFECT PITCH

Living in a consciousness of lack makes you 

take more than you need, 

and need more than you take, 

while desperately driven to the next detour 

called WAIT.

Running around in the machinations 

of your own imagination, 

inventing dreams of fake realities,

 turning truth into lies.

Wanting to wake from the slumber 

that makes you forget your worth and wealth to the world.

Desiring to drown the discordant voices 

telling you your own voice means nothing. 

Despaired of the passion requiring patience waiting on its purpose.

But in your heart you feel a note, 

a just right, familiar prophetic note, 

a perfect pitch that belongs to you. 

Follow That! 

PRODUCE

PAIN is not a product of good decisions.

Someone

somewhere

somehow did

something wrong,

and the outcome is always respectful of the cause.

Detours,

Damages,

destructive thoughts

all line up as the cause for the effect.

Regardless, the seeds are yours

to plant, to germinate, to grow

producing the pain or pleasure of their fruit.

Going down the aisles of life, we poke,

       we prod,

we pick,

            we punch,

Carefully, or not, examining each piece 

for quality of consumption before ingesting.

Too often thoughts of self-destruction 

invade and conquer our minds

Producing the very product 

we should not eat,

or don’t want to eat,

But we do

wondering why it tastes so bad?

All the while not understanding

That EVERY Word grows and

it’s simply a matter of

 PRODUCE.

Photograph by Pallab Halder

PS has given us quite a bit to reflect on.  Now I am going to post some music for you.

My husband is playing Miles Davis' "Milestones" in the front room, so I am going to post this song first:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k94zDsJ-JMU

The other day he was listening to "Tutu": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=00tzcnyDL68

Here is "Billy Boy," also from Milestone.  The arranger, by the way, was Ahmad Jamal:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZikFwf6gxJc

Enjoy!

Sharon Dina Rose Regala and Carl Scharwath!

Photograph by Carl Scharwath

Tonight, at last, I'd like to post a collaboration between the Filipina poet Sharon Dina Rose Regala and the Floridian photographer (and poet) Carl Scharwath.  It's wonderful to see the synergy between word and image.

Marooned

Life blooms
In the most unexpected
Places.

Bent
on being without
Purpose,

Now lies
With the richness
Of this Earth.

Rustic beauty,
Now holds
Such transformation.

-- Sharon Dina Rose Regala

Photograph by Carl Scharwath

Before You Go...

Let's pretend,
We're still in love.
Touch me,
where it hurts the most.
Bring me to heights
like you used to.
...and I'll pretend,
it's still me,
You're making love with..
...but please,
don't call out her name...
...and please,
Kiss me just once,
So I'll remember you...
then walk away...
Don't look back,
Don't look my way...
...not even once,
Not even a glance.

-- Sharon Dina Rose Regala

Photograph by Carl Scharwath

Oh, to you
Goddess
Of my marvelous night!
To you I owe
My other life.
The life
I owe,
I offer you
with delight.

Come...
Claim and own me...
Bathe my skin,
Lavish me
With your darkness.
Touch my spirit
With your
mystical charm
Oh, divine
Solitude...

Cloak my soul
With your mystery,
Blanket this temple with the stars
and the whole of the galaxy.
The darker the night has become,
The clearer my naked eyes could see..
You, mystifying Moon...
The majestic wonder
of the black-velvet sky is born.

-- Sharon Dina Rose Regala

My husband is more of a Carmen McRae fan than I am, but this song works well with Sharon's second poem:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T5izfGj0oQ0

Ah ha, I knew Dusty Springfield covered this song, too:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yxQtl3kKZKQ

I'm going to add Dusty's "The Look of Love" as well: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tf1d65OHYXo

I'm going to finish with Karen Carpenter's "If I Had You": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C4kD2xF3Ewg

Alan Britt Starts off 2019

While I'm still on winter break, I'd like to post a few poems by Alan Britt, a professor at Towson University.  Enjoy!

VOLUNTEER

(For our Veterans)

He who volunteers, reckless 

while defending right 

from wrong as we observe 

history fashioned into marble lions,

harpies, satyrs, minotaurs, hydras,

& mythological winged creatures 

surviving well beyond the League 

of Nations’ shrapnel stripping British 

logos from doughboy helmets designed 

for rain but not much else.

He who volunteers is reggae

with a pinch of Christianity holding

strong since Constantine kick started

that religion to unite his empire.

But, today, a rusty bit cuts the corners

of the volunteer’s political mouth,

(laser eyes everywhere),

just ask he who volunteers,

he who recklessly defends right 

from wrong while remaining

head over heels in love

with the future.

Photograph by Kimse, 2008

RULES

There are no rules for this.

Unless one considers the man

beneath a camouflage backpack

& carefully crushed Che Guevara cap.

He’s obligatory!

Don’t nitpick.

I’m advised to spread a cloth of carnations

allowing moonlight to flood my chameleon soul

until dreams leave teeth marks

across the bones strewn beside my bed.

I’m told to relax and contemplate my legs

like two boa constrictors stretched out 

before me while night’s stainless steel fingers

knit a moonlit shroud above my canopy bed. 

I understand some mysteries—

how one day topples the next

like domino waves scudding my ankles, knees, hips, 

waist, before breaching my neck.

But once foam invades my chin . . .

So, I rely on simple words, words nourished 

by verbs whose vowels are swollen

with humidity & sag like a silken web strung 

between two ruby leaves of a plum tree.

I’m talking poems protected

by feathers & damaged scales,

poems dressed & undressed,

poems that weave glistening trails

across darkened concrete stoops at dawn,

poems entering and exiting my pupils that resemble 

black holes inhaling the chaos of my universe.

Poems dressed & undressed.

After all, what does one wear

upon entering the ether world?

There are no rules.

 I WON’T CONTINUE UNTIL I SEE A HEAD NOD

Sometimes it feels like the beginning

of the end or else the end of the beginning.

Shake your head if you’ve heard this one.

Sometimes it feels like latitude

has replaced longitude

during the 21^stcentury coffee wars.

I snap my woolen dog blanket

against a chilly December breeze.

Sometimes it feels like the end

of something or the beginning of it.

Other times it doesn’t feel

like anything at all.

GET THEE TO A HOUSE OF REPUTE

Boardwalk model’s twisted seaweed quaff— 

dragon tattoo DNA-ing her lower back

as spandex jiggles adventurous avocados 

inside one’s fecund imagination.  

I worshipped an Anglo-Saxon monarch eons 

ago & watched his Danish cousin lift her 

muddy skirt for a border guard during one 

particularly gruesome occupation.

I couldn’t help but help, so I dove headlong 

into her quartz blue & canary-speckled eyes

with nary a thought of looking back.

  

WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE PARTIALLY ALIVE

Part of me knows nothing at all.

The rest of me even less, or a little.

I sway with Spanish moss, fluorescent

beard in 4^thAvenue lamplight, feeling

naked as a palm tree, limbs rooted

beneath cool grey sand.

Now, part of me knows this while

the rest of me waits in silence.

I burrow, bones covered by Modigliani skin,

beneath Florida soil fertilized by rain,

soil fertilized by an ancestry of crows,

plus salamanders under bronze moonlight.

Part of me knows nothing at all,

while the rest of me hears everything.

Prefering to "lean and loafe at his ease," Alan Britt is troubled by the corruption and ambivalence that permeates the Great Experiment, so politically speaking he has started the Commonsense Party, which ironically to some sounds radical. He believes the US should stop invading other countries to relieve them of their natural resources including tin, copper, bananas, diamonds, and oil, also that it’s time to eliminate corporate entitlements and reduce military spending in order to properly educate its citizenry, thereby reducing crime and strengthening the populace in the manner that the Constitution envisioned. He is quite fond of animals both wild and domestic and supports prosecuting animal abusers. As a member of PETA, he is disgusted by factory farming and decorative fur.

ALAN BRITT: Library of Congress Interview:

http://www.loc.gov/poetry/media/avfiles/poet-poem-alan-britt.mp3

Last night my husband and I went to see The Green Book, so I think I'll post some songs by Dr. Don Shirley.  Have you seen the movie yet?  I recommend it!

Here is Don Shirley's version of "Georgia on My Mind":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SWJJm2WJ-WA

He also covered "Bridge Over Troubled Water":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDEyBw_N2bA

This is his version of "Lullaby of Birdland" with Richard Davis on the bass: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FTeBgrY6MZA

I'll finish with the Don Shirley Trio's version of "Blue Skies":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGrU0jAdeVs

Enjoy!

Linda Imbler Reviews the Poetry of Bill Cushing!

From time to time, I like to publish book reviews.  A while back Linda Imbler sent me her review of Bill Cushing's book.  This will whet your appetite for his book that will be coming out soon from Finishing Line Press.  

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The wonderful poetry collection, Notes and Letters: A Celebration of Music and Poetry, starts off with a bang.  The first poem, “Some Notes of a Religious Nature,” is very powerful.  A later poem, “Ecco Homo,” based on the same concept as “Some Notes,” delivers an equally powerful punch. These two poems are magnificently woven within a series of poems about music and musicians or within poems which convey familiar scenes (diners, homeless, pool games, bicycling.)  

There is extremely vivid imagery of nature.  Mountains and water are prominent in these images and reflect the author’s deep love and respect for both.  “Cusqueños” and “Sailing” give that wow factor to the nod at nature.  With respect to the music, there are several brilliantly penned tributes to some great Jazz musicians a la “Music Isn’t About Standing Still and Being Safe” and “Listening to Bird.”  But, Mr. Cushing is not about to ignore the musical genres of Blues or Classical, so be sure to read “Blues For Earth” and “On Modest Mussourgsky’s ‘Bydlo’.”  

In case nature or pool games seem mundane, let me share a few poetic words from Bill Cushing’s “The Nature of Snow” (“snow settles on tree limbs and leaves like a soft wild mold”) and “At Pete’s Hut” (“cue balls scatter, clicking through the Marlboro haze.”)  Wow. This is good stuff. A highly recommended read.

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To purchase Bill's book, please click on this link:  https://www.amazon.com/Notes-Letters-Bill-Cushing-ebook/dp/B01EQPC7XW/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1546398689&sr=8-2&keywords=bill+Cushing+poems

If you would like to listen to Bill read his poems, this link leads to his evening on Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram's Quintessential Listening Program: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/ql_p/2018/09/04/quintessential-listening-poetry--bill-cushing. This really was a wonderful episode, and I learned a lot from Bill and Michael's discussion.

Linda has also appeared on the show as well, and you will be thrilled by her poetry:  http://www.blogtalkradio.com/ql_p/2018/12/11/quintessential-listening-poetry--linda-imbler

Recently my husband and I went to bassist Ben Williams'  birthday bash at the fabulous Hamilton.  I'd like to post some of his YouTube videos for you.  

I'll start with his version of "Blue Monk" as a bass duo:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJFIQR7TsjA

The other bassist is Yasushi Nakamura.

Next is his version of "Things Don't Exist," a song by Goapele:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XHVHS8uDJU

I don't remember if I've posted his version of "Smells Like Teen Spirit," but here it is.  Some of you may remember that Robert Glasper also covered this song.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SHk5JnEkR8Y

I'll finish with Williams' version of "The Moontrane": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gq_rpYcAVpw

Enjoy--and have a wonderful 2019!