Past Winners The Art of Music Annual Writing Contest
1st Place 2007
Brandon Williams for "Character"
2nd Place 2007
Rowena Priestly for "Metric Heart"
3rd Place 2007
Ann L. Kieffer for "Michael Tilson Thomas Conducts Stravinsky"
Brandon
Williams is a recent graduate of the University of California,
Riverside. He writes a lot. Sometimes, he reads. When he does, it's
usually the greats, which is probably why he often looks to be chewing
on something not quite agreeable. He is a firm believer in down-home
country music and is probably a strict constitutionalist. None of this
matters if he can't take a good picture.
CHARACTER
Born into the era of the compact disc, my ears connected to twisted tines, Walkman headphones, my eyes followed as the CD spun, encapsulating every color upon the cud-gray bottom of the disk. At fourteen, my mother gave me a stereo that played CD’s, tapes, 45’s and 33’s. I had to ask what the last two were. That very next Monday, I bought out Tower Records’ entire supply of Waylon Jennings 45’s, and I listened on my new record player as Waylon wailed Ladies Love Outlaws over the white-noise, the crackles, the clicks and clutter. Was that a banjo or a dobro? Who knows, but it sounded like somebody dropped a bowling ball on a platter of spaghetti, a wet mess of instruments, singing, and radio-snow that left a lot to be desired. When my mom asked what I thought, I sighed. Well, it certainly has character. Fuzz on the needle, scratches on the disk, skipped words and searching through dusty bins in the backs of collectible shops, flipping past Burl Ives and George Hamilton IV, hoping to find that one classic Merle Kilgore album. These are the experiences iTunes cannot recreate, that are lost as the disks grow smaller, 33’s, 45’s, CD’s, until finally they are no more than a file on a computer, perfect in sound, utterly thin in character.
Rowena
Priestley is a visual artist, poet and songwriter. She has had two
books of poetry published by Mellen Poetry Press, USA: “Bears and Other
Shadows” and “The Dream That Becomes Us.” These were published under
her former name, Martine Silk. She was born in Shrewsbury, England and
is a member of the British Haiku Society. She lives in Vancouver near
the Lost Lagoon in Stanley Park where she daily keeps company with the
beautiful white swans.
METRIC HEART
In the metric heart of me
there is no regulated metronome that beats
it sways off center
collapses in a heap of disparate notes & clanging chimes
long melancholy days follow by displacement
& sleepy hibernations with sultry blues in syncopated time
lounge lizards nestle down & roll their smoldering eyes
the metric heart of me appears not sound of mind
if I think too much aloud my skeleton floats away ...
vertebrae too sinuous & high strung for the light of tactile day
sometimes I’m a wayward girl skipping along the street this way & that, here & there
Ann
Levorson Kieffer is a retired teacher and theatre director who is now
living and writing in San Francisco. Some of her pieces have appeared
in “Plainsongs,” “Alive Now,” “The Poet's Art,” “The New York Times
Metropolitan Diary,” and others.
MICHAEL TILSON THOMAS CONDUCTS STRAVINSKY
At first he is polite But suddenly he becomes very angry He is a huge wave crashing and receding And now he is the wind roaring and rushing But now the wind roars back at him But he is stalwart-implacable
And now he is building tiny dollhouse furniture with his hands Each fragile item perfect Now he is in love with the violins But he is fickle because now he is in love with the oboes And the violins are heartbroken because now they are in love with him
But wait Now he is a humble priest bowing and grateful and nearly silent
And now he is angry again, ferocious, pointing and waving
And then he is swooshing everyone away He is an old woman sweeping dust furiously And then he is in love with everyone, especially the drums
And now he is a giant rising up and saying “I am in command. What I say goes”
But now he is coaxing and teasing softly And then he is polishing crystal raindrops
And now he is a great fish diving for food He gets it, of course And now he is a tree in a great storm crashing with grief And now he takes the whole thing in his arms And then throws it to all of us
Karen Benedetto for "A Pencil and a Pad" (The Songwriter Song)
3rd Place 2006
Dennis Norville for "Hymns of Home"
Ruth
Rotkowitz is a freelance writer residing in New Jersey. She has
published nonfiction in "Chicken Soup for the New Mom's Soul," "Chicken
Soup for the Sister's Soul 2, Expecting," and "The Woman's Newspaper of
Princeton," where she was a staff writer and member of the editorial
board. One of her articles received a first-place award in feature
writing from the National Federation of Press Women. She has published
poetry in Piano Press, Hopscotch, and Shemom. She has completed two
novels and begun work on a third. She is also an English teacher, and
has taught on both the college and high school levels, in New York and
New Jersey. She currently tutors English at The Tutoring Club in
Marlboro, New Jersey.
THREE-PART HARMONY
Shrill, insistent voices Blast the air, Staccato notes making demands; With youthful impatience, They question the horizon, And explore their range and pitch.
Three little beaks poke from the nest, Pointing smooth brown tips upward As they squawk their needs And proclaim their existence To the sweet blue sky.
A nearby branch suddenly quivers beneath the weight of rotund Mama and nervous Papa. Three baby beaks open wide to receive Their slithery meal, And the choral performance is halted Only to resume moments later, Broadcasting joyful cadences of satisfaction, High-pitched glee floating outward in a contented trill.
A camera or a pair of human eyes Comes too close. Mama zooms back, Shoves her babies down, parks herself on top. Three wondering voices silenced. Papa hovers above Glaring. Okay, we get it. Sorry.
Mama and Papa, mollified, fly off And our a capella group is back, The same motif In increased tempo: Feed me! Love me! Hear me sing!
We, the audience, will cheer When they take their first shaky flights, Knowing they will take one big one And never return.
Leaving the still air Reverberating with their final crescendo.
Karen
Benedetto has been a poet as far back as she can remember, when, at an
early age, she taught herself guitar and put her poems to music. Her
work has been recognized in a number of international songwriting
competitions and professional showcases. Her debut songwriter CD,
"Right From the Start…the Songs of Karen Benedetto" is a
various-artists recording that includes a range of musical styles from
cabaret, pop ballads, and novelty material, through folk, country, and
inspirational/gospel selections. Singers from the NYC Cabaret,
Broadway, and Concert stages interpret the seventeen songs in the
collection, with two selections on the CD performed by Karen herself.
"The Call," written in response to 9/11, received radio air-play both
across the U.S. and abroad. This powerful and timeless anthem of
healing and unity has had a part in numerous live commemorative events
in churches, spiritual centers, and civic gatherings, and has been
heard on sev-eral occasions at the United Nations. "The Perfect Gift,"
a unique way of looking at Christmas with love as the perfect offering,
is part of "A Holiday Sampler" CD as well as of "Holiday Heart," a
Hospice benefit recording. "Southern Rains," written in response to
Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, is part of a Red Cross benefit recording
produced and performed by vocalist Pamela Palmieri. A member of the
performing rights organization ASCAP, Karen presently has thirteen
songs out with publishers in Nashville, Philadelphia, and Michigan. She
is honored to be recognized for "A Pencil and A Pad" ("The Songwriter
Song") in Piano Press's 6th Annual Art of Music Writing Contest. Thank
you, Liz, for all of your wonderful and inspiring work! Karen can be
reached at BenedettoBarlow@IntheFlowMusic.com and through her web site www.KarenBenedettoSongs.com.
A PENCIL AND A PAD (THE SONGWRITER SONG)
She wanted to be someone else, live someone else's life, So she hid in other families for years. And you never got to know her well. She never let you in. To the place that held her dreams and her fears.
She never really smiled, Seemed quiet and withdrawn, And it looked to the outside world Like all her hope was gone.
But always in her pocket were A PENCIL AND A PAD. And she knew she had a place to go When things were goin' bad.
She would write a song, and the pain would disappear. She would write a song, then everything was clear. Her heart could sing. Her soul took wing.
She always had a feeling That her songs were not her own, That they had a greater purpose than she knew. And in her heart she realized Her life would have to change So she could do the work she had to do.
Her music was the key to everything inside. The more she played, the more she knew She could no longer hide.
And though it seemed her life Wouldn't turn out like she planned, She knew she had the gift to heal Right there in her hand.
She would write a song that someone else would hear. And somehow that song would release them from their fear. Their hearts could sing. Their souls take wing.
And though they wouldn't know who wrote the song with so much caring, They'd know it was a gift of love another soul was sharing. She would write a song, and the pain would disappear. She would write a song, then everything was clear. Her heart could sing. Her soul took wing. Her heart could sing. Her soul took wing…
Dennis
Norville is owner of a poetry business in North Carolina called Poetic
Potpourri Concepts. He has written some 800 poems and songs. He has
been published 200 times and has won 150 contest awards, including many
first, second, and third-place winnings. He is author of ten books and
his poetry is circulated in all 50 states of the USA and in five
foreign countries as well. He spends his spare time playing the piano
and guitar, singing, hiking, and mountain biking.
HYMNS OF HOME
My final days might be spent with my head Pressed to a pillow, me confined to bed: If I lie, waning, just before I'm dead,
Please gather 'round me: bring the doghouse bass, And take the flattop guitar from its case; And while you're standing near, before my face,
The mandolinist plucking on his strings, The five-string banjo blending as it rings, And as the vocalist so sweetly sings,
Don't sing the fine folk ballads for me then, Or greatest classics scribed by gifted men, . . . Of all the many genres man may pen,
The sacred ones are what I'll need to hear: Sing me to sleep with hymns of hope and cheer: Let songs of heaven fill the atmosphere.
