"bandstand" poems
On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends,
I stepped out of a puffing train,
my long unkempt hair a lion's mane,
getting used to my twitching tail,
Posing on the Gateway of India,
the extraordinary explorer pose,
took a boat to Elephanta (sans the hose),
and when my shivering co-passengers
had finished feverishly taking pictures
and started screaming holy mothers and sisters,
I took off from the starboard end,
and became the first man-lion to
cross the polluted Indian channel,
surviving to make the news channels,
my scientific name listed as a brand new mammal,
my mating call recognized as a gushing gargle,
On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends,
I devoured deep-kissing lovers for lunch
at Bandstand's low-tide on a hunch,
to the delicious sound of munch! munch!
even as Shah Rukh Khan watched disgusted
from his big big bungalow by the sea,
and as the city sharpshooters came after me,
and later when they brought me down,
from Nariman Point building, like KING KONG,
I tuned a dusty guitar and sang a melancholy song,
on the death of adventure, love and reality,
dangers of delusions, lethargy and self-pity,
repression, horniness and too much TV,
down in a shower of bullets when I went,
sky like the coming of rain, godspeed, godsend,
in a mythical city, where nothing is really meant,
On a mythical Mumbai weekend,
of no serene start or dubious end,
with imaginary beauties, invisible friends...
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
A dog sleeps
Using the steps of Barista Coffee Shop
As a pillow
A range rover hovers nearby
Waiting for the eventual girlfriend
To turn up
Two young school going girls
Bond
Across the road
And me
At my corner table, alone
Bond with my black coffee
A girl in red pajamas
Waits, with her big Shopper Stop Bag
Till some one, all smiles comes and says
“Hi”
And I still wait and wait
To let the sun take its own time,
To complete the journey
Of this side of the sea
And travel beyond
To say “hi”
And I keep waiting to be free
From the time
From the thought
Bound in the memory of life time
Do you see that?
Or I have to walk into the night
From the evening sunset to morning sun rise
To say,
I see you.
______________________________
Bandra Bandstand is in Mumbai at the sea face, where I love to have coffee, read books and watch the sun set down, in the evenings. I wrote this watching the happenings out side the Barista Cafe
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 9:50 AM UTC
In that telepathy where the tincture of you flows across into me
and two minds are as one
and the linguistics could be any language they please
where we understand everything
amid the teasing of the tone
and where the home I have made
is the bed upon which we laid
there is a playing of games across the Ocean whose name I no longer recall.
but no matter of that, in my mind,in my flat you are here
with me.
telepathically speaking until still seeking connect
I elect to a meeting
a fleeting of faces
a mouthful of places come up for a rendezvous.
Do you know where the flowers grow tall by the hot dog seller next to the bandstand in the parkland up at Hampstead hill?
You do?
good
see you at three twenty
and I have got plenty to say.
Later in the day after hot dogs and soda I told her let's move on,the evening has brought on a chill
will you come home with me?
I waited to see what her reply might be,
'that could be good'
and I knew that it would
so we
tootled off scootily
and she tootled quite beautifully
and on this bed that we laid we made
another nightshade.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 6:36 AM UTC
Shrove Tuesday. Meet me after school.
She had scented breath. Gordonstone
Said he’d ****** her. There was that
Look in her eyes. Her sister never had
The same way about her. The parents
Both taught at college. The father loved
Mahler and smoked a pipe. The mother
Had a taste for S&M; and listened to
Country and western. Meet me by the
Bandstand and come alone. Bud went
Along alone. The afternoon sun shone
Weakly down. She was standing by the
Pond watching the swans. The parents
Are out tonight she said how about you
And me? Bud said what about you and me?
The parents’ bed we could if you like
She muttered. Bud wondered where her
Parents were going and would they be late.
Ok he said. They walked through the park.
The sun was going down. Her sister was out
With some schmuck at the movies. She took
Bud into the house. He smelt wealth and
Comfort. Want a drink? she asked. Bud sipped
At the father’s scotch. She gulped down the
Mother’s gin. How about you and me going
Upstairs to the parents’ bed? Bud swilled the
Whisky around his mouth. The cheeks burnt.
The tongue almost died. She took his hand
And climbed the stairs. The carpet was soft
And deep. Bud thought of *** most days.
Bud dreamed of *** She undressed. Removed
Each item like some downtown stripper.
Bud once saw his mother’s naked ****
He was off food for a week. Come on in
She said. Bud removed his shirt and pants.
The curtains were flowered. He climbed into
The parent’s bed. Maybe Gordonstone had.
She lay there inviting him in. There was country
And western music coming from the huge hifi.
Bud hoped she didn’t have her mother’s taste
For S&M.; She hummed some country song.
Don’t be long she said. Enjoy she whispered.
There is no tomorrow. You’re a long while dead.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
Lost the key
I dance in desperate movements,
stepping on toes as I go
Spinning out of control as faces grimace in my wake,
changing scenery like mirrored ball illusions,
tiny reflective squares blinding as they move
Still you stare, questioning gazes,
not making eye contact
but sensing my heart through the song…
playing in steady repetition
Fingers in your ears for fear
that it might touch you
in rhythmic hypnosis, shining pendulums
swinging in reverse tempo, challenging these feelings
you hold but still can not admit the lyrics
Prideful walls of bricked fortitude
built around your emotions sing of
locked entryways and barred windows
and it seems I have lost the key
Misplaced along out of tune wavelengths
while pitchy corridors of doubt
fill in the shadows of this that I desire
Still I extend a hand, “would you care to dance?”
Dark eyes squint as you focus, looking beyond the bandstand,
finding mistakes of the past playing in three quarter time,
heading towards the stage door exit,
tapping your toe in cadence with the drummer
who now stops…along with the beat of my heart
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
I love my Solitude-
yet You intrude upon it
like the crashing of waves
on the rocks at Bandstand
I’ve tried to hold my peace
in the palm of my hand
but it turns into dewdrops
and trickles down my fingertips
I try to rid myself of You
and other clichéd metaphors
in my life….
for when I empty myself of You
I shall become Complete
Full of light
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
25/5/06.
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC
Little Jazz on my birthday
Kings Crown Radio
special every year
Schaap lays down
the JATP grooves
All the tracks of this
Steeltown cat
A perennial
birthday bash
Takes me Uptown
With Roy and Anita
Strolling arm and arm
Singing bout a city
Checkin out the sights
Knockin me a kiss
On the fat lobe lips
Of my eager ear
Ole Little Jazz
Hittin the high note
Blowin somethin cool
Playing with the great cats
He’s one himself
A lion of the bandstand
You can hear a him growl
When he blows that horn
Or a prissy ***** purr
Fine and mellow
on a bouncy ballad
Or check a lonely tomcat
moanin the blues
As he swings on down
some dark alley in Chicago
Yea, he’s one cool cat
this Eldridge dude
One cool Little Jazz cat
Paramus
1/30/99
jbm
Music Selection:
Roy Eldridge, Sunday
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
The evening bright lights
Scattered upon the floor
*Showing us the way
Bringing our minds to and fro
Listen as the words are said*
**Tricking our guitars
In playing sweet harmonies**
*Dedicated fans
American band playing
Performing greatest hit list*
*Swaying to good songs
Dancing on backlit stages
Screaming fans adoring chants*
**Lively sounds of drums
Bass player musically keyed**
*Melodic singer
Entertains us with his vocals
Crowd pleaser particapates*
Good night, Las Vegas
Enjoy the great crescendos
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 6:26 AM UTC
Weary eyed shop workers curse the sight of dawn,
A drunken Hen stumbles and her tutu gets torn,
The smell of burning chip fat invades my nose,
‘Chips for breakfast?!’ I cry, chewing marshmallows,
I venture towards the tower feeling free as a bird,
When SPLAT on my shoe lands a seagull ****
Rough with the smooth - that’s what this town’s all about,
I think as a man pulls his Jokebooks out,
‘It’s for charity!’ he lies. ‘I live here mate..’
‘Oh right, soz love, fancy a date?’’
I ignore the geezer and gaze out to the sea,
Wondering where the Lochness Monster might be..
Soaking up the sights as 2 drunks start to fight,
‘OI’ I shout, as a kid sets a bin alight.
Skaters jump like kangaroos on the bandstand,
As health freaks tut, running rapid on the sand.
Children charge like apes in supersensory mazes,
While parents eye arcades with terror on their faces,
Suddenly crisp packets dance in the air,
As the wind picks up and whips at my hair.
‘It’s hometime for me!’ A hailstone hits my eyeball,
And the blue sky runs behind some grey clouds of storm,
There’s not many places with 4 seasons in a day!
So don’t let the weather throw you into disarray.
‘Blackpool’ I say, ‘a town of stark contrast…’
As a horse driven carriage then a rat stroll past.
A town to make memories no matter how worn,
That time never erases as new ones get born.
Back in Bispham, where the prom’s a bit safer,
The oldies don’t buy 3 Hammers, just pies and papers,
I step off the number 11 bus and shout ‘Thanks!’
The bus driver grunts, takes his hand out his pants,
Then speeds down our beautiful, glistening prom,
Full of lights that probably shouldn’t still be on.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 4:16 PM UTC
He perches on his black-crate bandstand,
stationed between the payphone and postbox.
The view from his seat never varies:
a restless audience of briefcases and knees.
He closes his eyes, concentrating
on breath becoming buzz becoming blare,
and he pictures his notes glossing Manhattan’s
thunder-colored walls.
Each tone fills the pavement, square by square
until the sidewalk is a harlequin filmstrip,
colored by notes coaxed from his brass mouth.
Passersby withhold their gaze, because giving a nod
obliges giving a dollar, and no one is inclined
to employ this trumpeter. But he pays no mind;
his own eyes secured until song’s end.
As long as his fingers are jumping,
he doesn’t have to be Gerard Wall–
who lost his wife to cancer and mind to the War;
he can be Louis, Miles, or Pinetop Smith.
When he looks up once again,
sun and spirit have faded,
and he watches the evening embers
drift out of his horn.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
He could sing,
Songs did bring,
Stirring to my soul.
Played the two eight
track tapes, until late,
with headphones,
surrounded but alone.
He could lay out lyrics,
a bard, a poet, a musician
that rasied peoples spirits.
Like "The Eagle and The Hawk"
That voice still echoes.
Played many instruments,
like they were extensions
of himself, fine implements.
Never I thought,
Would I see him,
sing
In a big concert hall.
Or hoping, finding out that, "Country Roads Take Me Home"
I was right.
But was I ever part wrong.
That voice still echoes.
Summer in Prince George,
He was coming to town.
A concert series across the land,
not in an arena but
an outdoor bandstand!
There sat my hero, less than fifty feet away,
His fragile humanity, let the "Sunshine on My Shoulders",
Through times of my youth.
I don't remember the songs in order,
he did some favorites and some new,
he played his twelve string and the six,
that night was amazing so much so is sticks.
The resonating vibrato,
The notes pitch perfect,
The...times when I am down,
Then I listen to his music and it reminds me of my home, my youth, far away.
That night looking east, I could almost see the "Rocky Mountain(s) High"
His life changed direction,
maybe some misdirection,
He was different,
Or maybe I became indifferent,
His passing was tragic,
But nothing...
will ever erase the magic of that night,
under the stars,
out in the open
to where the singer and songs carried far,
by that voice, his voice that still echoes.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
Memories never fade since the day you past away
Ashes scattered amongst spring flowers that sway
It was your favourite place you spent time in summer
With dad now the two of you are together dearest Mother
In those beautiful Ornamental gardens ice cream in hand
Behind the trees you hear faint music from the bandstand
Birds singing all day and squirrels forage amongst the grounds
A symphony of natures beauty brings peace to those around
Now the two of you are together again I have nothing left to do
The only memory I have left is a photograph of you
Fictional for now. My mother has Alzheimer's.
David Swinden© 23/2/2016
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
SANCTUARY
this one perfect moment
time rearing up like a wave
that never ever breaks
the train's scream
the dog's bark
chiseled into the silence
dancing to
the bandstand's music
a flock of flags
birds
writing themselves...unwriting themselves
across a page of sky
this moment
flees from time
claims sanctuary in my mind
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 7:14 AM UTC
I met her there,
by the statue of Xerxes on waterdown square,
she looked fine,
dressed in the latest.
Tasting the time and the taste said she's mine
and we walked hand crossed hand to the bandstand where the pipers of Glenross were doing their best to impress,
we couldn't care less we were deaf to all sounds but our own and the beat of the drums bore us home.and
I met her there
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 4:12 AM UTC
Dark spotted room luminous
stage flare and fire
from the bandstand
reverberating energies
I hold a shipwrecked bottle in my hand
people are screaming
to the transient
and the metaphor
and the silent sky
I hold wicked form in my other hand
KURT VONNEGUT PLAYS
(Not a piano)
The room is faster
and chuckling heavy set back row phone call
girl scratches her lottery ticket
It's freezing out
I got a job at a movie theater, new time starts NOW
and we're all trying to make something out of tonight
Sylvia is shaking through the ferocious storm
that Sylvia, the same colors as an
inspired tattoo belonging to a year
everyone's on about
including ** Chi Minh City
and all it's superhighway narrowness n sunshine
What a hell of a year this one has been
(Blackout---Springboard--Parade--Pendulum--Butterfly--???)
SO LONG!
SEE YOU LATER!
THERE'S AN EASTERN SONG
I MUST PLAY FOR THE CHILDREN OF VIETNAM!
IN A LANGUAGE THEY DON'T YET UNDERSTAND!
After the show is done
I emerge and the modern rebel
puts on his jacket where written on his back with hard tape reads
“WAR IS OVER”
the hysterics go back to their usual voiceless catatonia
and I wonder at that moment
how we can feel so alone
with so many of us here.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
Recently I've been reading a book about American Bandstand from Philadelphia 1957-1963
and it's given me what I call the Bandstand Blues
where I recall a bygone era
when things were much simpler
and wish I was coping now
like I did back then
rather than being swarmed under by the undercurrent of
the jet age and the age of the computer,
where I had teen crushes
on the like of Arlene Sullivan, Carole Sealdeferri, and Trini Giordano
such that I daydreamed about being famous like they were someday
and going off and meeting them and dancing with them
Unfortunately that dream never
came true
Being a loner back then, I was envious
of the teen parties all the regulars had that I read about in the teen magazines
I would have like a
social life like that
wanting to go with what were considered the truly neat girls in school,
and vicariously imagining
myself up there as one of the
regulars in what seemed like
their bump and grind dances
and discovering my puberty that way
rather than through several girlfriends I had in school
a little bit
admiring the nice story of
**** Clark and wanting to
emulate him someday
which I fell far short of
as I grew old
although like I say, I managed to acquire some
wealth later on in life
Wanting to have trendy clothes
and trendy hairstyles
like the boys did
rather than being
rather dowdy in my opinion then,
and imagining what it would be like
growing up in probably what was a little more
sophisticated atmosphere back east
as I could tell from family vacations there
But I do cherish the fascination
The good side of bandstand in the book
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC
It's the sweet sundown of a a summer's night
Children finish their games in the last of the light
I'm alone, I'm lonely nothing feels right
The air is full of birds on the wing
Or nesting in the treetops you can hear them sing
But I'm oblivious to it, I don't hear a thing
The sky is growing darker, the night starts to unwind
The stars are beautiful, see how they shimmer and shine
But I don't see them, I might as well be blind
Courting couples wander, walking hand in hand
Strolling through the park, kiss under the empty bandstand
I'm lonely and I feel like a poor excuse for a man
I need that special someone, who can make my sun shine
I need to find a woman who'll be happy to be mine
Until then there's only ugly winter thoughts in my mind
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
Vast moments faded into hyperspace.
Moments of deception came around and went.
You spoke forth of true love, from a tongue that was forked, nothing was meant, flicked words to left, kisses to the right.
For occasional seconds, that sharp tongued forked out of sight.
Never concerned about sleeping at night.
Kept me awake.
My heart, my soul, my whole being, did you take
Tied up with dangling bangles and ribbons made out of silly string.
Joined together to deck out the bandstand of love formation and creation, for all the world to breathe and see.
Bright colours and patterns where nothing else matters, save being with you.
Where *** was initiated, formed in fresh air by heirs with graces with noses in air.
Made love to music in a million tones of clattering battering jiggery- pokery.
You set me on a journey, floating upstream on a broken raft.
You spoke that you loved my precious little heart,
My poor heart it conceived the truth you had spoken, pregnant issued with your lies.
You were not to be believed.
I looked down at your gift with tender eyes.
She looked up at me, she saw through your lies.
An adult now, abandoned by thee.
She knows of the truth,
She shall always have me.
You said you loved my heart and soul.
You liar
(C) LIVVI
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
Over by the corner the bandstand plays on
next to the cotton candy wagon and the clown
Its a circus act full of people and acrobats
and tallish men on walking wooden stilts
One tiny red balloon dots the sky as I espy
juggling acts leading to the garden path
it ain't over until the fat lady sings
so I better not dally, I need a glass ring
Fire eaters and sweet ladies that stretch
ventriloquists with two sided mouths
magicians that stage with props, and coins
cats on tight ropes, hawkers and escapists
Silver hoops and fast delivery guys
life is changing right before our very eyes
Give me the candy but don't tell me lies
of course I want the red balloon, untie!
Feb 12, 2023
Feb 12, 2023 at 6:09 AM UTC
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 3
Bad Morning, Viet-Nam
No music calls a teenager to war;
There is no American Bandstand of death,
No bugles sound a glorious John Wayne charge
For corpses floating down the Vam Co Tay
No rockin’ sounds for all the bodies bagged
No “Gerry Owen” to accompany
Obscene screams in the hot, rain-rotting night.
Bullets do not **** Mortars do not crump.
There is no rattle of musketry.
The racket and the horror are concussive.
Men – boys, really – do not choose to die,
“Willingly sacrifice their lives,” that lie;
They just writhe in blood, on a gunboat deck
Painted to Navy specifications.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
Bad Morning, Viet-Nam
No music calls a teenager to war;
There is no American Bandstand of death,
No bugles sound a glorious John Wayne charge
For corpses floating down the Vam Co Tay
No rockin’ sounds for all the bodies bagged
No “Gerry Owen” to accompany
Obscene screams in the hot, rain-rotting night.
Bullets do not whiz. Mortars do not crump.
There is no thin rattle of musketry.
The racket and the horror are concussive.
Men – boys, really – do not choose to die,
“Willingly sacrifice their lives,” that lie;
They just writhe in blood, on a gunboat deck
Painted to Navy specifications.
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
Will you sit with me in March?
And wait for the haze to pass. Let us sit
By
The abandoned bandstand and upon the
Trimmed patch of grass
Where you once bravely
Asked,
‘Where ought we stare when the postman
Stands by the door and
Lingers there for far too long?’
I digress.
And I digress.
Conversations are empty lately, they
Have taken the form of the streets;
Empty but filled with crass souls, wandering
For a place to buy sea shells.
Seemingly an innocent task and yet so pointless
To ordinary folk.
I hope.
And I hope
That these men, these hollow skulled men, find
Delight in the barren streets,
Like a treat
After a numb month’s labour.
I speak.
And I speak.
‘Hold me to these streets, where men once worked
By the arching lamp post and the
Abandoned home of the
Holy ghost.’
Will you come and walk in May?
When the birds
Scramble on the park floor
As if to bluntly say
We are rather dull and
Dire in the way
We walk and
Play.
I am aching and grey.
And I am aching and grey.
Do a man a favour, and
Refrain - please
Do not stay.
Let my hair turn dry and grey, and
Let my
Age fade away. Please
Do not stay.
I have talked with the doctor, and they
Often say
That I will be
Okay for today and perhaps
Tomorrow I will not. Alas!
All people will
Decay. And
Minds never stay
The same type of sane.
Hearts
Will often sway and sway.
And death yields no delay, it comes
When it ends, and starts
When it comes. Whether
Young or almost done.
The fun will cease, often
On that empty street
Where crass men wander, or
By the postman who
Happily lingers.
Will you embrace me in November?
Where my limbs are weak, and limber.
Where the bandstand singer has
Moved on to some place bigger.
Will you let me go in December?
Say yes, and please
Remember, that we both surrendered.
Let us spend this time
In slumber, so we can find some kind
Of splendour once the streets
Begin to busy again.
Jul 19, 2020
Jul 19, 2020 at 7:42 PM UTC