Joe Dolce: Two Poems

The Great Male-versus-Female Guitar Contest of 1933

Little Lizzy Douglas (they called her the kid),

was born in Louisiana, in a farmer’s shed.

She didn’t like farming, she didn’t like her name,

so she grabbed a guitar and hopped on a train.

Little Lizzie Douglas stepped on board—

but when she stepped off, Memphis Minnie was born.

 

Memphis Minnie, you better watch out,

the way she plays that guitar can knock the roof off a house.

 

Big-town Chicago was the place to be,

the best blues shows you ever did see.

Big Bill Broonzy was the cock-of-the-heap,

he could play a blues song, put a baby to sleep.

 

Some fool suggested they place a few bets,

on a Male-versus-Female Guitar Contest,

a bottle of whisky, a bottle of gin

would be the First Prize, for the one that’d win.

 

Sleepy John Estes and Tampa Red, too,

were picked as the judges for the hullabaloo.

The place was packed with black and white,

faces against the window, to catch a sight.

 

When Bill took the stage, the crowd went wild,

no room to move, they were standing in the aisles,

whooping and a hollering, and making every sound,

it took them ten minutes just to settle them down.

 

Bill played it fat, Bill played it lean,

he played a song he wrote called Just a Dream.

Bill played it tough, Bill played it sweet,

the people were convinced he couldn’t be beat.

 

Memphis Minnie, you better watch out,

the way she plays that guitar can knock the roof off a house.

 

 

When Minnie took the stage, the crowd got quiet,

they thought she was crazy and shouldn’t even try it,

this coal-black woman, from way down South,

with sparkling gold teeth across the front of her mouth.

 

Minnie stood up, right out of her chair,

grabbed that guitar and put it everywhere,

she hitched her skirt way above her thigh,

she was a good-looking woman and caught every eye.

 

Minnie played a little of her Chauffeur Blues,

and when she got finished, poor Bill looked confused.

The people were stomping and yelling encores,

the place kept rocking for twenty minutes more.

 

Memphis Minnie, you better watch out,

the way she plays that guitar can knock the roof off a house.

 

Tilt

 Rain falls in vertical sheets, no slant,

windless, gravity-dragged straight down,

drenching in a single coat,

branches, buds; evaporating,

as cloud-shuttered sun opens

fingers outwards, in humid benediction,

to jewelled and crowned leaves.

I sit in hot air, wishing to decipher

birdsong, like St Francis (perhaps they chirped Italian?)—

certainly, I understand cageless music.

Down the slope, three kangaroos nibble,

two large browns engaging in necking ritual,

heads thrown to one side, then to the other,

like formal French faire la bise, perhaps foreplay.

The third smaller joey, a scruffy weathered grey,

stands behind, at respectful distance.

Suddenly, they freeze, looking straight up,

They may suspect I’m sketching them, in this poem,

but, more likely they’ve caught my whiff,

on the rising wind, now tilting

gently peppering rain twenty degrees.

Joe Dolce