Ignore the racist stereotypes and see true athleticism, artistry and energy. The incomparable Whitey’s Lindy Hoppers, and the poem follows. Watch the video first; I dare you not to be amazed. Band is Slim Galliard and Slam Stewart; Slam spent his last years in my hometown, Binghamton, NY. A gentle, sweet man who never lost his soulful voice and way with a bass.
Lindy Hoppers
Back when jazz was hot
When the drums meant dancin
jitterbuggin, Lindy Hoppin
shimmyin, shakin your sugar…
Lil, Grace, and Fancy
flounced and flirted in the finer clubs
Gracie, she was fine on the dance floor
Lil had more meat on her bones,
made lifting for the Lindy doubtful
Still, she clapped and hooted off on the side
beer in one hand, the other tucked in Slim’s front pocket
Now, Fancy was a flimsy-thin frail
made for stompin at the Savoy
When the band commenced to wailin
she’d be flyin over Jimmy’s head,
flung between his legs and back up again
She shined like a new penny,
bronze and easy rollin
Her real name was Flo
but once they saw her dance
hellzapoppin on that floor
they renamed her Fancy
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Thin, Jitter, Grace, blog
At We Write Poems, a prompt went out: Write a poem about writing a poem. You never know when or where the inspiration will strike. I’ve long since given up on sitting down and deciding to produce something… and yet, the more I write, the more I want to write!
This poem is also posted at Writer’s Island, where I’m posting daily for National Poetry Writing Month. Amy
Prelude to a Poem
Teapot screams meeeeeEEEEEEEE
demanding attention
Drip of the French Press into the mug
Pressing grounds through as
ground falls from under my feet
taking me back to that cafe in the Village where…
Drifting with the breeze down State Street
Lots of UW students hang and hacky-sack here
Whole lives ahead of them
One potent whiff of a fattie gives me
a contact high and suddenly I’m on Venice Beach…
We march in solidarity with unions at
Madison’s Capitol Dome
The golden statue atop is called Miss Forward
The governor inside is called Mister Backward
My anger at injustice boils inside my gut
I plop down on the pavement and start to
scribble on the back of my sign…
Startled awake, sweating, full-body tremble
recalling those nights when
a little girl was tucked in tight until
HE decided it was her turn
I switch on the light – it’s NOW, dammit, not THEN!
I pick up a pen…
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sunday Scribblings wanted to hear thoughts about December. Long ago and far away, I was a Manhattanite…
CITY SNOW AT EVENING
Central Park in December
At dusk the sun has dipped below
the stark skyline
casting reflections of blue
on the new-fallen snow
It’s as if even the snow knows
it’s part of an urban landscape
the color of steel and
the crunchy crust it so readily forms
As if to say,
“Hey, there’s nothing fluffy to see here
Move along, now”
Making my way across 72nd Street
the heat of the subway has already risen
and melted this fresh blessing
into muddy pools of rusted slush
It’s City snow, all right
It won’t last the night
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Anyone who’s thought of writing poetry should check out Three Word Wednesday. That’s the heart of it – you get three words to play with, once a week. If you have a blog, link your poem to the site and get visits from other poets, then visit them back… if you don’t have a blog, click on the names listed, and you’ll see what they have done! It’s a nice way to get started in poetry. Also: Leave a pad and paper in three places: In the bathroom (!), by your bed, and next to where you usually waste time watching reality TV! You just might come up with something! Peace, Amy
IN LEANER TIMES
We the hardscrabbles
etched our names on our forearms
lest we be found in a ditch
with no one to utter our names
The nights in dim pubs
speaking easily of all we intended to do
dabbling in art, thinking youth and inspiration
would always be on tap, like Guinness
Those were the leaner times
Now most sit in cubicles or
stand in unemployment lines
remembering the joy of possessing nothing
…save inspiration
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
My dear friend George emailed me a link with recent pictures from The Strand, one of many grand old theatres in our hometown of Binghamton, NY. Those images inspired this poem. Thanks, George!
THE STRAND THEATRE, BINGHAMTON, NY
She was what they used to call A Grande Dame:
Stately, opulent, inspiring awe and delight.
Follow me back in time…
Look up: Tiffany crown.
Look down: Plush carpet.
Look around: Roomy seats, wide stage, velvet curtain, affording itinerant vaudevillians room to slay ‘em with a joke (told 2,380 times from Omaha to Syracuse, but here, heard by fresh ears, rewarded with belly laughs).
Room for dancers to tap sway meringue swing do their thing.
Singers thrived on the Strand’s perfect acoustics.
As with all perfect miracles on earth,
vaudeville died,
and She, the stately Grande Dame,
found her spacious stage usurped by a screen.
Movies drifted from Keaton to Talmadge
Robert Taylor to Rod Taylor
to Johnny Rodd (“Deep Throat played there;
the Art Theatre was deemed too small,
its floor sticky with patrons’ souvenirs)
Eventually, like even the gamest of girls,
she was abandoned.
Now she’s a shell of her former shined and
shimmering self, laid low by scavengers
and an abortive attempt at plastic surgery.
But within, her heart beats in steady memories.
Echoes of Liberace, who packed the house
(winking at fawning old ladies and
joking about his brother George).
Echoes of Ish Kabibble and Hugh Herbert,
leaving ‘em in stitches.
Echoes of the pit band, all local musicians
earning a decent living doing what they loved.
Echoes of singers whose names are remembered
only by a cloud of witnesses floating in
a plaster-dust atmosphere
or written on peeling wallpaper.
A strand of pearls, unstrung, save in our hearts.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
At Big Tent Poetry, we were asked to think long and hard about our dwellings… then write about a favorite place. I knew right away where my heart lay.
OUR KITCHEN (for Lex)
In times long passed,
the kitchen hearth was
the heart of every home.
Scent of drying herbs
a potpourri of potted and garden delights.
Fresh-baked bread beckoning.
Perhaps a rocking chair for Gram
as she sat and choreographed
the preparation of the evening meal.
And always, a pot of coffee.
Our own kitchen is quite small,
but the walls, tomato red, stir appetites.
We collaborate on meals:
Here’s the wooden board, I’ll chop veggies
while you brown the chicken.
You, the king of piecrust, rule the rolling pin
while I slice apples and stir in spices.
Occasionally, we bump butts, laughing.
Small space, but a romantic place.
Our kitchen is the heart of our home.
Rented, but ours, still
because we’ve made it so.
The cat watches longingly from his perch
awaiting his shre.
We cook, bake, talk, share
and pray over the meal we prepare,
for patience, for love to loom large
over the rest of the world. As for me and mine,
we are at peace.
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Remember when TV had real news reporting, truthful coverage, and fewer ads?
TVoLUTION
In the beginning was creativity
Watch This – brought to you by
Buy This
This pattern morphed over time in sinister ways
as Buy This bought out the creators of
Watch This
Buy This now dictated the watching
Watch This was shuffled about according to Buy This trending
Our only anchor was the anchorman
the Network Evening News
Buy This pulled up that anchor and we were adrift
Then Buy This created
Watch This Happening Now
which became
Watch Only These Bits, then
Watch Only These Bits And Think This About Them
Buy This also went from choosy moms and see the USA in your Chevrolet
to eyes narcotically glued to the tube
Plasma spasm
Minds restless, but legs so lazy they got their own syndrome
and consequently their own drug
well-advertised, saturating the market like Crisco
and every bit as healthy
TVolution
In the beginning it was
“Watch This, then
Buy This.”
This pattern morphed in sinister ways
as the creators of Watch This
were bought out by Buy This.
Buy This dictated what we’d watch
Watch This was shuffled about
according to Buy This trends.
Our only anchor was the anchorman
(to our sorrow, no more Morrow)
Buy This took over the news department
Watch This Happening Now
became
Watch Only This Part We’re Showing You
then whittled down to
Watch Only This Part, and Think This About It
Buy This also went from choosy moms and peanut butter
to couch potatoes with legs so lazy
they got their own lazy syndrome
and consequently, their own drug.
To be fair, Buy This does mention the side effects:
Dry mouth, dry South,
desiring more sex but
unable to harden one’s resolve
and urges to gamble
and drive while asleep at the wheel
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
BAD INHABITANTS! BAD! (For Jingle’s Blog)
After years of neglect
the elemental truth is this:
We have failed
as stewards of our planet
as guardians of
the seventh generation to come
Our rain is acid and
wells polluted as we drill for
The Next Big Thing to power our
Next Big Honkin’ Truck We Don’t Need
Industry, single drivers, and cow farts
Too many vehicles, not enough trees
Too much red meat, not enough veggies
have rendered the air toxic
Farming was once a family business
Now CAFOS and Con-Aggravation
slosh our ground with liquid shit
Poverty rapes the rain forests
Driving up SoCal’s Highway 1
some whack job flicks a butt out the window
That spark becomes a flames becomes a wildfire
becomes death and destruction
Water, Air, Earth, Fire
Elements of the earth
Elements of our dearth of desire
to let the seventh generation be born and have their say
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
From the Poetic Asides prompt, “Setting The World On Fire.” Remembering some great gigs!
JAZZ AFIRE
Spotlight’s hot tonight
Fresh coffee on the side table
My fingers touch the cool ivories
and all hell breaks loose
Thumping the bass line
Reaching deep, drawing out
the raw fire of jazz within
Souls of legends aflame as I call to them:
Feed my soul, strike the match
Light a fire under my piano bench
til I burn with desire to shout it true
Til the keys melt at my touch
Hellzapoppin at this piano bar
Crowd heats up and calls for more
Coffee’s cold, neglected
but I’m a pyre of pure jazz afire
(c) 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
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