"Poetry, Passion and Song" March 2016, Issue #20

INDIANA VOICE JOURNAL

~Presents~ 

"POETRY, PASSION AND SONG" 

THE MUSIC ISSUE

Painting by Berthold Faust, in honour of Charlie Parker

 (August 29, 1920 – March 12, 1955)

"Music is your own experience, your own thoughts, your wisdom. If you don't live it, it won't come out your horn. They teach you there's a boundary line to music. But, man, there's no boundary line to art."~Charlie Parker

A few hours after Parker's passing "Bird Lives" began appearing as graffiti in New York City subways supposedly written by Ted Joans, a Beat Generation poet whose work drew from the African-American oral tradition and blended black consciousness with avant-garde jazz rhythm.

DB Cox-our own master blue's musician, friend, and bad-ass poet-has written a poetic tribute to Charlie Parker and some of the other "legendaries" who are no longer with us but are most certainly still howlin' from the heavens. Be sure to see the featured post in the left-hand column.

This music edition was inspired by Parker's truth--there is no boundary line to art. So turn off the TV, shut down the noise, and enjoy the unique blend of poetry, music, photography, stories, essays, and art embedded in this issue of IVJ. With all the major talent included-It's sure to become a classic!

~In This Issue~

Poetry

David Allen, Goirick Brahmachari, Elizabeth Brooks, Adam Brown, Phillip Brown, DB Cox, James Diaz, Ken Allan Dronsfield, David Francis, Paul Goldman, Diane Sahms-Guarnieri,  Jack Harvey, Andrew Hubbard, Josh Huber, Chris Kempling, Laurie Kuntz, Marianne Lyon, Don Mager, Donal Mahoney, Des Mannay, Joan McNerney, Sultana Raza, Anthony Sarch, Judith Skillman, Tim Staley, Harry Youtt

Fiction

David Domine, Scott Thomas Outlar, Harry Youtt

Creative Nonfiction/Essay/Memoir 

Alex Beckman, Nina Fosati,  Lynda McKinney Lambert

Music Review

Jennifer Criss

 Visual Art

Photgraphy by Chris McCown and Fabrice Poussin

  
 ~Please scroll the page to browse the individual features~

Two Poems By David Allen: "Mandolin Therapy", "Darren's Humming"

David Allen is poet and freelance writer living in Central Indiana. He is a retired journalist with 36 years on newspapers in Virginia, and the Far East, the last 19 years as Guam and Okinawa Bureau Chief for Stars and Stripes, the daily newspaper for the American military community overseas. He has been published in several on-line poetry magazines and has two books of poetry, “The Story So Far” and “(more),” both available from Amazon.   He has been married to his Muse, Ruth Ellen, for 27 years.   www.davidallen.nu

Portrait of Brother David with Mandolin, 1914, Marc Chagall

Mandolin Therapy

       

My father plays the mandolin

when life begins to close him in;

playing old folk tunes and country airs,

music helps to soothe his cares

and ease his life.

And he plays,

           when the need for drink

           clouds his brain

           and he can’t think.

He plays,

           when the bills are high

           and cash is low

           when my mother cries.

He plays,

           into the night

           but it never seems

           to come out right.

He plays the mandolin

when life begins to close him in.

He plays.

DARREN’S HUMMING

(Ode to an autistic child)

Darren’s humming

some secret Darren song

as I sit here smiling,

humming right along,

marveling at his easygoing style,

humming to myself awhile.

While Darren’s humming

in his high chair,

blocking me out

like I’m not there,

turning his toy car

upside down,

making it spin

two-handed

‘round and ‘round

as he hums

his secret song.

And I find myself

humming right along

and show him

a one-handed spin

as he watches

and, humming,

he takes it in

and holds his car

in his right hand

and twirls it,

showing he’s the man

who can learn

while humming

his secret song

and I smile

and hum along.

We’re in tune,

my first grandson and I,

two generations getting by

a duet, humming

right along

Darren’s secret

humming song.

~David Allen 

Two Poems by Goirick Brahmachari: "A river in E major", "A river in F# minor"

Goirick lives in Dilli. He hails from Silchar, Assam

 

Jatinga Valley

• A river in E major

A white river runs

down these steep hills like a song-

        ripples many moons,

notes, cold stones;           drones memories

of forgotten sounds,  

             only fireflies and grasshoppers

can bring,                  goose-fleshing

a dark percussive breeze that

engulfs a dead, white

                           valley where people must have

forgotten their speech.

And silence

echoes      itself            loud

through      the           notes

it waves                    inside dreams

we carry

for                 white rivers           to

roll down    these  steep   hills     slowly

before the song ends.

• A river in F# minor

notes, like a river

count death in white syllables,

bring mist, memories

to the silk valley

from a silent, yellow hill

                      (we call Jatinga)

on strange cold nights when

everyone plans to dream in

liquid     quarter   notes

for the monsoon is

strong and the birds are free to

fall                          in the river.

First published in Spark Magazine

~Goirick Brahmachari

Two Poems By Elizabeth Brooks: "That Little Girl", "Your Sound Your Style"

Elizabeth Brooks resides in Tampa, Florida. She is originally from Trinidad and Tobago.  A lover of life, family, friends, a good book,  lots of laughter and continues to grow in her faith and accept many challenges.  She is a librarian by profession and a part-time reference librarian at Saint Leo University, St. Leo Florida. She continues to enjoy reading and sharing her poems with many, at events in Tampa Bay.


 

Dancing duo~Elizabeth and son

That Little Girl

She ran everywhere she went

she was so shy,

hid behind her mother's skirt,

she was so shy,

she would pluck her eyelashes out

when people talked about

how thick they were.

She could not stand to hear

how little she was, had pretty hair

she was so shy.

Everyday her mother stuck her head

out the door

"don't run." But off she went

out of breath. She ran all the way,

some said '"she'll definitely be late

for school today, poor thing!”

but she was fast - so swift and

on time,  almost late - close call

but she did her morning ritual

danced for her Mommy and Daddy.

Her parents watched as music took

her into another dimension.

When her Daddy worked the morning shift

she could not dance for him

but her Mommy was always there,

she danced for her

to her surprise - she sometimes

looked up, there was her Daddy,

"my relief came early today,"

he would say, so happy but so spoiled

she would pout and frown

in obvious glee,  then smile

and dance, and dance and dance

then run, and run, and run

again to school that day.

That little girl, shy on the outside

but she had an internal drive

always glowing,

brave and bold on the inside.

When she danced she

was mad with ecstasy

her body was ripe with rhythm

you could see the soul of

that little girl who still moves with

rhythm to the beat of every sound.


 

Your Sound Your Style

I hear the music in the street,

sweet guitar strings,

your sound, your style,

the applause of thunder and

a New York summer storm.

Your music stirs my soul.  

Then the recognition

in your eyes as you spot

me weaving through the

crowd amidst the faint sweetness

of angelic faces and scoops

and tons of people at crosswalks

on the streets coming from

art museums/ of pumping

hearts focused some laser

focused on a subway ride

like zombies, but your music

interrupts their stride.

Some linger others stop to

hear you play for awhile.

After being with my friends,

in the heat- shopping to the

beat of the street

fairs and the experience

of bundles of fun.

You and I return home

to a light supper, share a glass

of wine. Then twin showers

and giggles, a body

massage from those

hands, melting in your arms

like clockwork, then I fall

asleep with a painted smile

to the soft jazzy lullaby

of your voice and your

sweet strum of the guitar.

~Elizabeth Brooks