Tuesday, July 10, 2012

July in Oktober: Old songs, New Songs-- 7/10

The second song of my first FAWM is important to me. It was also my first FAWMing collab, since Steffan Pitzel dug it so, he made a really great song of it.

The tune, a sort of jazzy snazzy thing, I wrote another song to, since Steffan's slow, bluesy melody had stuck in my mind. I cannot find the full lyric anywhere, so it may get posted later in the month.


The other song posted is older yet, from the summer of 1996. I'll explain when you get there.

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A friend once told me that the last verse wasn't as strong as the others. I agreed, at first, and then after listening to some of my favorite songs by other artists, and this again, I realized that wasn't so: bringing it back to a personal level, makes it stronger, makes it not-preachy. And anyone that has fought for inclusion in a rigid, backward system knows just what it means. This may be the only song ever to get a compliment of: "You had me at 'bullet-proof bible'." In fact, it better be. I wrote that line!


Stronger Than Dogma


drinking my night down
in a local bar, heard a good friend saying,
"They've gone too far. Get yourself a rifle,
and a bulletproof bible.
It could be any day now, that They start the last war."

but i say, you've got to be
stronger than dogma
for the fear to fly--
deeper than the redness
in a kamikaze's eye
to keep afloat, you've got to note the light pollution in the sky,
and move on...

i don't hand out sunshine
but i was told
nastiness echoes in a
hollowed-out soul
if you'd stand for freedom,
please don't stand on my head;
if your faith could move mountains,
let it move your heart instead

you've got to be
stronger than dogma
for your fears to fly
you've got to be
deeper than the redness
in a kamikaze's eye
to keep afloat, you've got to note the evolution of the sky
and move on...

working through the classics
in my college groove
i squeezed on the Canon
but it wouldn't move
i heard, the Forms and Names are sacred
they'll never be dispersed
they may not be the only choice
but they stick because they're first...

you've got to be
stronger than dogma
for your fears to die
you've got to be
deeper than the redness in a drunken poet's eye
to keep afloat, you've got to tote up imperfections with a sigh, and move
on...



© 2009 by Mari Kozlowski

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 My oldest sister, Lynne, died of untreated cancer in April, 1996. I was living in Indianapolis at the time, and so did not have the support system of my family (or my band) here in Buffalo to help me get through. Grief was a slow-growth thing for me, then; it was easier at first, and got worse over the next few years. I had no idea that would happen; I was dealing with the death of a long love, also, living in the corpse of the relationship, in a strange new state.

 When I wrote this, I thought I had a good understanding of death, but I had no understanding of how it would soon overwhelm me. But I had some friendship, some will to heal, some hope. I was staying at a friend's wonderful, relaxing home in Buffalo in late June, early July; and it had stormed the night before. As I sat on my friend's white porch, looking out at the fresh, relieved morning, all my feelings came together and I quickly sang and wrote these words, refining them, paring away any excess.

An hour or two later, I sang them to bandmate Joe Todaro (we were called Diamond Tribe, then) on my way to our violinist's apt. for a rehearsal. Joe had set up over half a dozen gigs for the two week+ period of my visit, and we were rehearsing and/or performing just about everyday. In the car, he thought up the chords for the song. When we arrived at Mary Marciniak's place, he played it for us, and I loved it. It was perfect. Mary felt that strings might overpower the delicate tune, so she tried to come up with a flute part instead-- she could play about 10 instruments. I heard where the part should be, showed her, and she immediately played and expanded on it. We added a partial harmony, and performed it that night at our gig.

 My fondness for this song was such that I put it into a movie soundtrack, on a tape, and in two compilations. We still perform it, doing it with a little country shine here, pure and folk-choral there.

 Still one of my very favorite works.




The Blossom Song


Oh, come to me
When the summer is a storm
And the honey is ready
And the opening's warm

We'll lay in the green
We'll lay in the green
We'll lay in the green
Till the song calls us home

Will you come to me?
When the summer is a storm
And the honey is ready
And the opening's warm

We'll lay in the green
We'll lay in the green
We'll lay in the green
Till the song calls us home

We'll feed the blossoming
And blow our voices to the air
They'll catch our sweetness, then
They'll send it on and on, and on

And we'll lay in the green
We'll lay in the green
We'll lay in the green

Till the song calls us home
Till the song calls us home
Till the song calls us home


© 1996, 1997, 2000, 2001 by Mari Kozlowski & Joe Todaro




Wednesday, July 4, 2012

July in Oktober: Old Songs, New Songs-- 7/4

 Part of me wants to say, hey, I'll celebrate Independence Day when the friggin' Patriot Act is repealed. Part of me is a sucker for higher ideals... I was born a Pisces, but close to the cusp of Aquarius, those patrons of lofty cause (let's NOT say lost cause, here).

 I refuse to give it up, but I'm not grilling anything, you hear?

 As I eat my politcially incorrect, Monsanto-generated new Belvita breakfast cookies, (sustained energy!) I offer a pair of energetic songs I wrote during the same week a couple summers ago.


------------------------


 Mostly I hate this sweaty, awful season. The warm weather in my area has changed, becoming too warm more of the time, and I moved back here, to Buffalo, for the coolness. Too late! But certain days take the edge off, with their ripe loveliness.This came from that experience. It's sung to a sprightly, quick guitar lick with bits of flute to "bird it up."


The Freshness of the Morning



The morning sun makes me forget

What I’m supposed to do today

The morning sun makes me forget

That I don’t much like Summer



The morning sun in early Autumn

Green-gold waving blue-eyed baby

The morning sun makes me feel fuller

With a tiny breeze across my chin



Winter is moving up the queue

Low skies and shortened afternoons

But out here in my slice of blue

I cannot see it coming



The days have been too hot and tense

The air too moist, the heat immense

The crows were sliding off the fence

But I forgive it all



(instrumental with turtle flute)



The morning sun makes me think 

Hopeful dippy thoughts about world peace

The morning sun makes me think I

Could really write that one great novel



The morning sun in early Autumn

Softly tuning up the sky

The morning sun has songs

In passing glints along the shifting leaves



The days have been too hot and tense

The air too moist, the heat immense

The crows were sliding off the fence

But I forgive it all



The morning sun makes me embrace

What I’m supposed to do today

The morning sun is in my face

 And I am fresher for it 



© 2010 by Mari Kozlowski

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I'm not sure what this song was even called, (might have been The Whole Thing) and can't find the archived notes. But it speaks for itself; my answer to that short-term patriotism that says love it or leave it, and means, pretend there's no flaw or get out.

And of course, this does so in a bang-end country guitar anthem style-- what else? It's got a great hooky chorus that rings.





Some say there’s only one kind of patriot here

Some are saying there’s only one way to believe

Some scorn the hopefuls who been scraping at the doors

That always used to be open

Some say if you see a flaw, you oughta leave

But those people got it wrong, ‘cause




I believe in America, oh yeah



In her sickness and in health



I believe in America, oh yeah



As strong as I believe in myself



I was made in America, and I bear the mark of my maker for sure



I believe in America-- her mind’s a little scattered but her heart is pure




I was raised to accept a new idea, if it made sense

I was raised to accept another’s needs

I was raised in a place where people weren’t afraid to help a stranger

At the side of the road

I was raised in a land of word as deed

I won’t concede that




I believe in America, oh yeah



In her sickness and in health



I believe in America, oh yeah



As strong as I believe in myself



I was made in America, and I bear the mark of my maker for sure



I believe in America-- her body may be tattered but her thoughts are pure



 (bridge)

I won’t lie, I don’t love to watch a burning flag

But I’ll defend with every breath the principle that symbol embodies

As it falls to ash

I can’t hide my pride at the true freedom the act implies

Without that trust, the fabric is just a body bag

So let the smoke fill the sky




I believe in America, oh yeah



In her sickness and in health



I believe in America, oh yeah



As strong as I believe in myself



I was made in America, and I bear the mark of my maker for sure



I believe in America-- her body may be tattered but her thoughts are pure





And I believe that the founding parents put in words

Truths they couldn’t fit into their lives

I believe that interpretation is good

And a judgment looks better through compassionate eyes

I believe we can own our mistakes and it won’t destroy our might

What good is a strong arm

If it doesn’t help us separate our wrong from our right?





I believe in America, oh yeah



In her sickness and in health



I believe in America, oh yeah



As strong as I believe in myself



I was made in America, and I bear the mark of my maker for sure



With a natural taste for personal responsibility; the acts may be imperfect but the ideals



Pure…



I believe in America, oh yeah



Not ashamed in her sickness or her health



I believe in America, oh yeah



As strong as I believe in myself



You can come to America, and still belong, wherever you’re from

If you believe in America, oh yeah



Well, the work of true freedom has just begun…




© 2010 by Mari Kozlowski

July in Oktober: Old Songs, New Songs-- 7/3

Here's the first new song of the season. I've written about weather disasters before, but from a different POV. Here's hoping our friends in Colorado, and other afflicted areas, are all safe, and suffer little loss.



The Next Hot Day

grey-green scent of rain
drifting from the pane
slides over my shoulder
moves in curious waves
-------------------------
relief is coming
hear the twitching in the breeze
relief is coming
in motes of some lost sea
--------------------------
tense and eager stems
slurry down crude streams
peeling off the messages
baked onto their skin
-----------------------------
relief is coming
see the scorched and haggard smile
relief is coming
for too short a while
-----------------------
relief is coming
hear the twitching of the breeze
relief is coming
but not for free


© 2012 by Mari Kozlowski

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Written in FAWM 2010, this was influenced by the experience of my next door neighbors-- inspired by, but not truly about them. Tough moments most of us will have to live through. I can't find the recording I made, though....


Endless

for the fourth time
she had seen him
steal a hard breath
when he thought her head was turned away


they were only in their 60's
time to travel
time to explore the world
they'd been too busy for


their 3 children lived in cities
far from the village
they were born in


and the call to hear
their father's final word
was a solid inconvenience


she stood outside
watching the oldest try
a pretense of cheer
covering impatience


the idea was put forth at the funeral
You know, Mom, someone really should

take care of you
this place is clean and nice, i stopped

there on the way in
we should take a guided tour, soon
soon


her memory is a mirror now
she sees just what she did
and wishes she could
take some back

but she moves along
as he urged her
in the moment
when they separated
endlessly
 endlessly



© 2010 by Mari Kozlowski

Monday, July 2, 2012

July in Oktober: Old Songs, New Songs, 7/ 2

Sometimes you can write a song that makes you wonder how you ever gathered the fine, golden threads together: it feels like divine inspiration when it comes, and yet if you know yourself well, you can trace the footprints of your weird mind backwards (or sideways) to the source/s.

These two songs are like that, in their different ways. The first came in a burst of inspiration during a rehearsal with my long-time songwriting partner less than a month after my first FAWM, the second during a prolonged stretch of songwriting in the airy summer challenge of the 50/90.

I hope one, or both, speak to you.

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 This song was written soon after President Obama took office. J. and I, who've worked together musically since the early 90's, were having a band rehearsal that March, when he showed me one of his new guitar riffs. I asked him to play it again, over and over, and in a short stint of frenetic transcribing, the lyric was done. We refined it that very week, and have performed it here and there since; but it's still fresh for us, and barely exposed. Let's face it, songs by Transcendental Folk bands in Buffalo, NY, rarely make it past our own suburbs.

 It's called Soldier Song, and reflects my complicated feelings about armed forces-- grateful for what they give, unhappy with them being called to give it. It is topical, but still relevant, I hope. It was a call to better action, and to thought, and a lashing out against idiocies like The Patriot Act. My ambivalence about the war itself, too, is caught here.

 It doesn't just mean standard soldiers, either. Does that come through? I was thinking, in the back bedrooms of my mind, of the mother who had demonstrated against the war in front of the White House after her son was killed in action. Her bold, passionate actions moved me. So did the young soldier that left the war, refusing to go back due to matters of conscience.

With all of these ingredients bubbling around below the surface, the song could have become a mess, scattered in focus; instead the flow was there, right on. It's a song I love to sing around Independence Day.

As in many songs, the impressions cast from the imagery are as important as the rational details of each line-- parts that don't make logical sense, you know?



Soldier Song


The dirt beneath your eyes

In the melting of your life

Gathers in the desert

Of freedoms left behind--



We are trying

To stand and fight

For the prevailing

Of cooler, clearer minds



The shadow of the child

Her dead son used to be

Plays among the ruins

Of cracked democracy--



We are trying

To set it right

In the unveiling

Of cooler, clearer minds



The dirt beneath your eyes

Doesn’t shade you from the blast

Of high ideals that couldn’t last--

You are dying

In generosity


Patching up the walls

Of cracked democracy


Patching up the walls

Of cracked democracy


Patching up the walls

Of cracked democracy



© 2009 by Joe Todaro & Mari Kozlowski

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12 years or so ago, I took a lit/writing class called Poetry of the Occult. Great class, sort of co-taught by Blakean scholar Jim Watt and the amazing poetry teacher and poet Fran Quinn. It was a night class, near the end of the week, which I found made for more serious classmates; and when you're in college during your thirties, you want to be in class with other people that are dying to be there, too.

 We focused heavily on Blake, and at some point, the whole class was told we would each have to pick one of the Songs of Innocence & Experience, that were we working through then, and sing it that night, acapella, in front of the rest. Not my cup of jasmine tea!

Unlike my classmates, I was a trained vocalist, and a performing songwriter at the time; but I also had a policy of not performing unless prepared. It can make you look bad.

But there was no choice, that night. I picked a song at random, went through the phrasing in my head, and when my turn came, shocked the shit out of the entire class (and probably the surrounding classrooms, due to my volume) by singing a nearly operatic, pretty and high melody to Ah, Sunflower:


Ah Sunflower

Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,

Who countest the steps of the Sun:

Seeking after that sweet golden clime

Where the traveller's journey is done;


Where the Youth pined away with desire,

And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow

Arise from their graves and aspire

Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

 
--William Blake


 I'd been nervous, but it was an easy melody to write, and came out perfectly. The class was stone silent for a minute, staring at me, and then Jim said something like "Well, that raises the ante," or some such. Then, "Who's next?" A brave girl with not much vocal ability plowed through hers, and got a good response. After the class, people surrounded me, asking questions and giving compliments and so on.

 I always loved that song of Blake's, and one soft afternoon during a songwriting marathon, I accidentally began paying tribute to it. It expanded, the meanings shifted, and instead of a rumination on life eternal, it became more of meditation on lost youth and beauty, framed in a sort of fairy-tale, ripe with garden metaphor. It's full of memories, for me, and no one else has ever heard it, yet.



DEFLOWERING

Ahh, Sunflower, why you bother reaching?

Don't you know the squirrel prince is stalking you?
He seeks your tender middle
Your seeds will never harden--
Your children will be squirrels that eat your cousins

Lemon petals gild the grass, now
Your bright face is bowed beneath the weight
Afternoon is your last moment
To count out steps to the sun

Ahh, Sunflower, the bee and bird did love you
In their flittered ways to rile you
Turning your flushed virgin looks towards the ground
Was almost done without violence

Lemon petals gild the grass, now
Your face is bowed to share the guilt
This afternoon is your last moment
To count steps to the sun
To count out steps to the sun

Ahh, Sunflower, have pity on your suitors
The pale youth in his watered down morality
Small and scratching wanderers who never asked your name
The rushing breeze that took your scent for his own consolation

All they wanted was your freshness
And your budded smile

You wished
You wished for
Sweet gold-kissed air
Dropping lamentations while the sun was in your hair

Ahh, Sunflower, why you bother reaching?
All that made you beautiful is gone
Spilled into the bed you made soft with expectation
Savored
By friends and strangers

Ahh, Sunflower
Don't linger out of your season


© 2010 by Mari Kozlowski 

Sunday, July 1, 2012

July in Oktober: Old Songs, New Songs, 7/1

 Working on true stories here last month was both liberating, and harrowing. I came to it from a place of having many stressful incidents happen in a row, in my personal and family life. It seemed as if everyone around me was having their lives explode at the same time, and coping with it all put me in the odd mood to spill private truths I've never written about as openly before. I had no idea they would be interesting to others, but as some stories were, I worked to put more out. Only, the weirdness continued, and a few tales are left unfinished, in draft on Blogger. They may appear next June, or another time, but for now I'm done with true stories.

 For several years, July has been a period of increased songwriting for me, as I habitually attempt to nail the challenge of the 50/90-- that is, 50 songs in 90 days, an offshoot of February Album Writing Month, (FAWM) when the challenge is 14 songs in (the usual) 28 days of February.  (Which was an offshoot of NaNoWriMo, of course, and a great one). For a couple years, I've done the challenge twice simulaneously, on two author pages.

 The 50/90 begins on July 4th, and the energy at the official website is pulsing right now. People have talked about what they'll be trying for, style or genre-wise, or with new instruments. Pre-challenge challenges get thrown down and met, but mostly we are all simmering, waiting for the time to let flow our bottled up energy and write some new songs as fast as we can.

After that initial spurt, the feeling in the forums calms down, and people settle in. There's less pressure than February, although it's a greater undertaking. There's also less listening to other people as the months go by-- well, most of us check out just as many or more songs, but as each musician is building a list of fifty, you can't expect your entire catalog of songs to get equal attention.

 And I don't, especially as, for technical reasons mostly, I have posted only lyrics to any of my songs. You have to read them, not hear them, unless another musician takes a fancy to some of them and puts up a collaboration with me. That happens frequently, but still-- most of my songs must be read, even though they are always, always written with a full melody line, (and usually get a quick vocal sketch recorded, so I won't forget the heart of my songs). The upshot of this is, most of my favorite songs, the best songs I feel I have ever written, haven't often been seen or heard by more than one or two people, max. And because my singing and writing skills far outclass my instrumental powers, they may never be properly heard.

 It kills me.

 I understand that my personal favorites may be too esoteric, wordy or poetic for the average reader. I've heard that some feel they don't scan well-- that they wouldn't fit in a proper musical phrase. But most people that write songs are more creative and fluid as musicians than they are as singers. They have a wider, more complex grasp of styles with a guitar or piano, than with their voice. They are usually guitarists first, writing from a different place. And I will never be able to play that well, play the deep layering of notes I hear when I write.

 My lyrics sing perfectly, if you have at least my level of vocal skill, and don't think in 4/4 rhythm. They are sometimes challenging to sing. But they work. I know, I sing as I write them. It shapes the phrases, the chorus, the bridge, the verse. If you don't think it works, you're not hearing it right.

 So for July, at least, I'll be sharing old and newer lyrics, all previously published and copywritten, all recorded somewhere, if not as well as they deserve; they definitely deserve to be seen.

 I'll include tidbits of the original intros, where I have them, that explain part of where the songs come from. I can add on a bit about the process that led to a particular song. But intros and such never explain as much as people take from them. You have to let lyrics explain themselves like poetry; they have internal references, they use metaphor, they may swim around the main subject, or use a red herring before springing out to surprise you. They are never straight up, even when they are.

 Here are a couple of 2, 3 year old songs to start with. I hope you'll enjoy them, however they sound to you.

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21. The Secret Life of Snow**

2009-08-18 @ 05:09pm
tags: choral cold-thought confessional canticle

"It's been a loathesome level of hot-n-humid for days so this is where my mind went today. Sort of a wish, or a self-induced trance toward a cooler mental place. Getting it from inside the myth of no-two-alike."

--Note: written years before Kate's 50 Words for Snow.

**This was a popular enough lyric that two musical friends put up differing collabs of it-- one, by Tim Fatchen, was intrumental (thus far) and is on his wonderful CD, Dark Sparkles. I would love to have him meld his version, and my version, sometime. The other, by my Irish bud Flav, was a lovely guitar version sung with his typical, understated, gravely merry approach.
The thing is-- it's a good song, still.


Lyrics

As the mask of cold begins
To cover anxious cheeks and chins
The startled hearts of snowflakes
Lose their homes...

For they must freeze out on their own, each one
Divided and alone
Gone from
The cool lake of air that bore them
To change and make the crystal
Solitary art that is
The secret life of snow

A quiet, purist freefall jump
They cannot choose
Or slow

The prism-layered secret life of snow

As they lay in wind-moved hills
Building on soft strength of will
And learning they are
Sisters of the skies

Comes the surprise; of giving up the flight
The grounding of their lightness, they must begin
To meld and lose solitude
Shapely singles dripping to a coarsely molded form
Hardened from their own
A glancing masterpiece that is
The secret life of snow

Insensible persuasive union falls
Beneath the shovel, pick and plow
A bitter glinting beauty's end
They cannot help but know

The finely brutal secret life of snow


© 2009 by Mari Kozlowski

**This was a popular enough lyric that two musical friends put up differeing versions of it-- one, by Tim Fatchen, was intrumental (thus far) and is on his wonderful CD, Dark Sparkles. I would love to have him meld his version, and my version, sometime. The other, by my Irish bud Flav, was a lovely guitar version sung with his typical, understated, gravely merry approach.
The thing is-- it's a good song, still.


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From my first-ever FAWM, written while I was still giddily grinding out the longform of my first novel. I was writing at least 12 hours aday, then. Good times. Below are the liner notes I included during that FAWM.

Toads and Diamonds

Tagged As:
grimm whiny fairy-tale folk

"Was watching (again) an old Brit 80's show, Robin of Sherwood (get it on Netflix, people, do) and thought of some furry-tiles. I'm a devotee of all types of fairy-tales, more so the old, un-Disneyfied versions. And thought of this, taking a little bit different perspective. After all, getting married by someone who wants to use your disability to keep them rich probably doesn't ensure much of a happily-ever-after quotient."  (And like the Mary Magdalene/Virgin Mary thing, I decided these sisters were possibly two sides of the same goddess/woman/daughter.)

The man of the house told me to add; this title is from a fairy-tale in the Grimm's Blue Fairy book, if ya don't already know. He didn't.
Also-- a little inspired by FLAV, whose tunes you should listen to, or be cursed forever for your lack of Brigidity.

Lyrics:

you fall into my dense forest
like a man who's lost to green;
then curse me for a harlot
so i'll loose those precious tears
that prove you king...

you collect them, and gift them back to me
so we live, and so we misconstrue
it's always toads and diamonds, with you

when you first came to this leaf-blown place
you saw a path, shone, to my face
what e'er i said,
you clearly heard
and listened closely
to each jeweled word

but time has grimed our gleam, now all you read
are the vip'rous tones you drag from me
it's always toads and diamonds, lately

you say they're coarse and shun my kin
their care is poison on your skin
my response drops
in petals to my knees

you don't understand, you echo
how they love me
it's always toads and diamonds, in my family
toads and diamonds with you and me...

once all i expressed of love
was pearls upon your hands
now you only feel the stony cold
as my demands

an affliction you cannot bear to own
but i speak toads and diamonds
you've always known....


© 2009 by Mari Kozlowski