Here’s how these things work in the ultra-connected world of blogging.
A couple of weeks ago I posted an audio video of my cousin’s 1968 recording of his song Heather Girl. Across the pond, fellow runner and music lover Saoirse listened to Heather Girl and asked if I had ever heard First Aid Kit. Good timing on her question. Yesterday they were on CBS This Morning.
Thanks, Saoirse.
When my novel Heather Girl is made into a major motion picture starring Amy Adams, this is the song that will play as the opening credits roll and Heather walks down the street to the coffee shop, the wind whipping through her hair. Credit to my cousin, Joe Clatworthy, who wrote the song and recorded it as a member of the group The Muffetts, though they were also known as The Mojos.
This from poet laureate of the Shelton College Review, Larry Ellis.
Psalm 57: 8
Awake up, my glory; awake psaltery and harp: I myself will awake early.
Think of David as he lies on the mountain
He looks at the night sky
Unending, unfathomable, unreachable
The diamond stars
The firmament that declares the glory of God
And he aches
His heart panting like the hart after the waterbrook
At his side are sword, spear and bow
His body is cut from oak, his skin like leather
His mind a blade itself, with razor’s edge
He breathes the open air and the day’s tension dissolves
He rests in the shadow of the wings of the Almighty
.
This man who killed the giant
And tens of thousands
Hears heaven’s choir and plays on his harp
Songs that soothe the savage breast of Saul
His poems are those very psalms
That have charmed and inspired
Over millennia
And he aches
.
At first light, at first rustling of dawn
He turns and shakes away sleep
Here is a new day
He rises, believing the promise
“Awake up, my glory”
.
What is his glory?
One more win in bloody combat?
Or is it that unknowable thing
That all men share with him
That desire beneath all desires
That lesser men have long since forgotten
And forfeited to the unrelenting fates
That lesser men are afraid to confess
.
Does David wake early
Expecting glory in bloodshed
Or does he crave
That his righteousness will shine like the dawn
And the justice of his cause like the noonday sun?
Does he crave that gift, that grace, that dispensation
That is his and his alone?
That unspeakable grace promised to him
When he first came to know himself?
.
Is the difference between him and me
That he believes it will happen
And maybe this very day
And so he wakes early
And takes in hand
Psaltery and harp
Copyright 2017, Larry Ellis
she sings
a soulful song
in a minor key
of trials
and overcoming
and faith
and perseverance.
she sings
and reads
the music
with her fingers
as her guide
sits dutifully
at her feet.
she sings
and her voice
is strong
and her spirit
is strong
and her will
is strong.
she sings
and we marvel,
as if singing
while blind
gives her
special grace
to share.
she sings
and she is
ours
and she is
always there
to sing
for us.
but
she sings
no more
and great
is her pain
and lonely
are her days
in darkness.
she sings
no more
and friends
talk with her
and friends
pray with her
and be with her.
she sings
no more
but she
will have faith
and will persevere
and will overcome
and she will sing.
she sings
and we will
lift her up
and we will
thank our God
for every
remembrance.
she sings
and she
will always
sing
and bring joy
to all
who hear.
copyright 2017, joseph e bird
tomorrow will come, and i’ll sing an old song
and think of the day, that the words came along
i didn’t know then, that song was my last
i didn’t know then, that time flies so fast
tomorrow will come, and i’ll look toward the sun
and remember the spring, when i went for a run
i didn’t know then, that it was my last
i didn’t know then, that time flies so fast.
so remember the day, of all that was good
when youth was forever, we’d play when we would
remember the day, of life with no fears
tomorrow is coming, and with it the tears
.
tomorrow will come, and i’ll think of my friend
and read all the words, that he took time to send
i didn’t know then, that they were his last
i didn’t know then, that time flies so fast
tomorrow will come, and i’ll hear her sweet voice
and laugh at her jokes, her spirit rejoice
i didn’t know then, that her smile was her last
i didn’t know then, that time flies so fast
so remember the day, of our one last good time
when I touched your face, and your hand held mine
remember the day, and when we would dance
for tomorrow is coming, leave nothing to chance
copyright 2017, joseph e bird
as time goes on…
…colour my world with hope of loving you.
— james pankow, Chicago
Remember when you used to sit and listen to music with your headphones on, the 12″ x 12″ album cover in your hands as you went track to track? You’d be mesmerized by the cover art. You’d study the liner notes. You’d follow along if the lyrics were printed on the cover. After a few days, you’d know every song by heart.
No. Most of you don’t remember because that was before your time.
But back to our story.
The festival was over. The boys were planning for a fall.
Something’s up. Then we’re introduced to the ringleader.
He was standing in the doorway, looking like the Jack of Hearts.
Back in the golden age of vinyl, songs didn’t have be under three minutes. And everyone knew that serious music, serious songs, ran at least five minutes. Those were the songs you never wanted to end. American Pie comes to mind. Chicago’s Ballet for a Girl from Buchannon ran a glorious thirteen minutes.
Backstage the girls were playing five card stud by the stairs.
Lily drew two queens, she was hoping for a third to match her pair.
It was always best if you were alone. Total absorption into the music.
Big Jim was no one’s fool, he owned the town’s only diamond mine.
If you wanted to hear a track again, you’d have to wait. You can’t (or shouldn’t) pick up the tone arm and place the stylus in the same groove that had just played. You’d risk distorting the vinyl and degrading the sound quality. You had to let the grooves cool.
Rosemary combed her hair and took a carriage into town.
You had to let the grooves cool.
You couldn’t wait to play the song again, but you had to. Made you want to hear it that much more.
The hanging judge came in unnoticed and was being wined and dined.
The drilling in the wall kept up, but no one seemed to pay it any mind.
And those songs would tell a story as good as anything you ever read in a book. No music videos, you had to paint the scene in your head. You were the casting agent, the set and costume designer, the director. It was all yours. You just had to follow along.
The story I’ve been telling is a Bob Dylan classic, Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts, more than eight minutes long. It had hidden in my memory until it came up on my Pandora station during a four-hour trip yesterday. It’s a great driving song.
I won’t tell you what happens. If you want to know, click the link below. But wait until you can listen without distraction. It’s just better that way.
She was thinking about her father, who she very rarely saw.
She was thinking about Rosemary, she was thinking about the law.
But most of all, she was thinking about the Jack of Hearts.
My old school. No, not my class. I’m old, but not that old.
I spent half of my first grade year at the old Central School, which was an elementary school by then. In the photo above, it was the high school in my little town of St. Albans, West Virginia.
Freshmen Nuts, the banner says. Kids being kids, trying to be outrageous for their class photo. Front and center is Sarah Wilson, dressed like a baby with her baby bottle. The others I can’t really figure out. Behind Sarah is someone in what used to be called a “dunce” hat, which was sometimes used to humiliate misbehaving students. Oh, the psychological carnage inflicted in those days. To left of the dunce, a student is very proud of whatever he (she?) is holding. Wish I could see it. I’ll bet it’s good.
Then there’s the fiddle player. Kind of looks like a girl to me. She’s holding the fiddle comfortably, knowingly, as if it’s more than just a prop. Like she’d be tearing into Turkey in the Straw at the square dance on Saturday night with her guitar playing father and banjo picking brother. Her friends would think she’s odd and make fun of her. Then, in her senior year, a new family from Huntington would move to town to help build the railroad. The oldest son, Harry, is Clara’s age. (Yes, her name is Clara. How do I know that? I’m a writer. I think Clara suits her.) The other kids don’t want much to do with Harry because he’s new and he comes from money. And then there’s Harry’s good looks. He’s just intimidating. Except Clara doesn’t care. He’s the new outsider. She’s been an outsider as long as she can remember.
There’s something about Clara. You can see it in the photo. Harry sees it. She’s no-nonsense. Straightforward. Not afraid to speak her mind.
“You play the violin very well,” he says.
“It’s a fiddle.”
“Yes, of course. I took piano lessons when I was young. Learned a little Brahms. Some Liszt.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you ever play any classical music?”
“I’m a fiddle player. I don’t care much about those guys.”
“Uh-huh.”
On the platform behind her, her father plays the first three chords of the next song.
“Got to go.”
She turns to take her place, fiddle under her chin. She looks back.
“Can you dance?”
Before he can answer, she’s ripping off the intro to the next song, smiling at Harry.
.
Then again, it’s entirely possible that the person in the photo is a guy. But that’s another story.
Joseph E Bird 