Thomas Hardy Listens To Louis Armstrong, by Andrew Shields
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Thomas Hardy Listens To Louis Armstrong, by Andrew Shields

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Poetry. Music. When Thomas Hardy listens to Louis Armstrong, music reaches out to poetry across centuries and oceans. Here, a "dreamer at a loss" passes notes to a classmate, "cards of absolute equivocation" that "run through all the scales in all the keys," from "a man of many hats" to Osip Mandelstam's tambourine, from the dream of a monk to a broken traffic light.
Thomas Hardy Listens To Louis Armstrong, by Andrew Shields - Amazon Sales Rank: #3457649 in Books
- Published on: 2015-06-25
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.75" h x 5.75" w x .50" l, .84 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 84 pages
Thomas Hardy Listens To Louis Armstrong, by Andrew Shields About the Author Andrew Shields has lived in Switzerland since 1995. Among other things, he is a Michigander, Palo Altan, Comp Lit PhD, English teacher, German and French speaker, translator, poet, song-writer, guitarist, mandolinist, father, and husband.

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0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. A Review: Thomas Hardy Listens To Louis Armstrong By D. Othniel Forte Andrew Shields bravely titled his book, Thomas Hardy listens to Louis Armstrong. That there is a bold claim that didn’t just grab my attention, it paused time, albeit momentarily. “Serious?” was the first thing that popped out. What possible link had he uncovered between the two? The serenity of Dorchester, Upper Bockhampton, England, couldn’t be further from the bustle of “the Battlefield”, New Orleans, Louisiana. Tomsy boy couldn’t be more different than Louie G. Where Thomas grew up in relative comfort, had steady parents that pushed him along. Louis grew up in [more like survived through] near abject poverty. Thomas Sr. was an ideal father; Williams was any but ideal. Jemima [stay-home-mom, reliable] took interest in her son’s education, she pushed him at every turn. Mayann [never-at-home mom, unreliable], she barely could hold on to Pops before spending time on his education. So what was he up to here? Perhaps they’d met Under the Greenwood Tree or was it beneath some fenced “cottonwood trees”? Of course not. Perhaps somewhere in the Madding Crowd, Ambassador Satch was performing? What a treat the English would get. Or maybe, he was just grasping for Desperate Remedies after penning such an obvious travesty? Questions, questions, questions! Each bombarding me; each jabbing, demanding answers. An avid Pops addict, I couldn’t wait to lay my hands on the book to find out what this author had to say about the satchy Satchmo and the rather calm and collected hardy Hardy.That wait lasted all of two weeks. The yellow envelop arrived just as I clocked out. I ripped it open and there! Now I could finally read this… cock and bull or was it a pun? It didn’t matter, I would soon find out. I skidded through the front matter and went straight to page nine and there to greet me was the Hatter. Oh imagine “[h]ow great my” relief, and “my joys how” many when just after verse one, we’d listened to Bird chirping, ridden the Magic Trane, dined with royalty and feasted on the royal sounds of Count B and Duke E. We even managed to hear some pipers piping at dawn and danced in the carnival as drummers drummed away on their drums. Now this is somewhere we know Pops would be smacked right in the middle. Gosh, he’d be leading the parade if he had his way. Oh and there are loads of brats up to no good. Lastly, we glimpse a mysterious hatter.By the end of verse two, that unknown hatter we saw takes to dazzling us. One moment he’s picking up “girls and boys” or just “bills”. He then roams around ‘laundromats’, for what, no one really knows. Another time, we witness him on a murderous spree, whacking off diplomats. Oh were we in another period, how his services could be come in handy for some politicians…. And yet at other times, he’s a faceless, frontline, red-taper, those that make our lives hell just because they can. But the best act of the scene is that of a not-so-smart weatherman, whose papa, [I can bet you a nickel and a dollar] was a rolling stone.The Hatter doesn’t stop there. We soon see him becoming a ‘batter’, a freshie in search of ‘frats’ and then a ‘spinster’ that spins magic words for her ‘nephews’. One of those witty boys then spins them words perfectly into more than the hearts of the girls he charms. We are left to imagine what happens after that. In the morn’, he stops by to tame the ‘lions’ before wearing his happy ‘clown’ face and then juggles the ‘beer’ he brewed in the ‘vats’ to the amusement of all. He somehow manages to transform into the ‘Egyptian plover’, completes its task under the scorching African sun and makes it just in time to help the ‘organic’ farmer pluck his fresh apples. He retires for the night quite satisfied as the accomplished salesman. He pops open a champagne bottle and sips away whilst preparing for one last act- an “on-line doctor”. Is this one of his cons? The phony Doctor Hatter? We will never know because by now, we are left to wonder about his identity. He has worn so many hats, we are as confused as we could ever be. He’s a perfect salesman alright. He sold us everything and yet nothing. He can be anyone and then everyone. He remains simply, “the man of many hats”. The Hatter.My JourneyBy now, I was on something; Andrew Shields was onto something. He had hooked me onto some new ‘muggle’ that I am certain Pops would appreciate. As for the gentleman Hardy, well let’s just say…It soon became clear that there wouldn’t be much reading as there would be ‘hearing’. Shields presents music in many parts of the book. I soon woke to the tune of a “mockingbird” in a magical “land” that had no “nightingales”. I was the Expat who enjoyed “minimal solicitudes”, “beers”, and “flirts” as “Mannequin musicians” played. Was it jazz, pop, “reggae”, I didn’t care. I was certain that I wanted to “give a child to this land” or was I? While “I was there”, the people spoke some strange language, but since I only knew some “German, learned from” my dad’s old vinyl “record” player, I thought it wise to pretend I was “deaf and dumb.”Making my way deeper into the town, one pub caught my attention. In some faded paint, written on oak wood, was the sign- Your Mileage May Vary. Outwardly, there was nothing spectacular about this place, except for a rather large fountain and “two cats in the yard.” Boy did I have a good time. There was a live band blasting out just ‘bout every kind of music. They played songs that had been arranged into and sang in ‘most every genre over the last sixty years- pop, bellhop, rock, swing, dance, and of course the jazzy jazz tunes in many renditions.Reluctantly, I left. That is my story and I am sticking by it; although chatter about town says the stranger was dragged out of the place. “O laws of men” how limiting, how…. Pissy drunk, yet pissed, I left in search of another. After all, there were many inns opened into the wee hours of the morn’. It’s always Netter Bever Lhan Tate. Or was it Tetter Lever Bhan Nate? Whatever! I just needed to spend my last dollar before “that lucky old sun”, sitting up yonder with “nothin’” better to do, shows its shiny face. I was in luck. At an Inn, just across the street, gathered a crowd. I proceeded as a “dead man walking”, not caring. I wanted to be far away from any hypocritical “Protestant” or “Catholic” “preacher”. This time, I walked “away with a curse” directed at them for curtailing my merriment.I entered and continued the night’s dance. People crammed the floor, gyrating, pulsating, and desperately attempting to shake off the shadows the Circle Maker had fought so hard to create. No one cared; no one stopped; we just danced. This was exactly the place I wanted to be at that moment. At one point, a self-playing guitar played some tunes to which we danced the Tango. Exhausted and almost dawn, I had to reluctantly leave the floor, springing my way over the bridge on which sat the Busker busking. No one paid him mind. I doubt if they could even remember the words to the songs he played. I stopped by and gave him the last penny. There! I was officially broke, penniless.Since I had no cares, I figured I might as well see the rest of the town. I hadn’t walked “long enough” when I saw the Blackbird that taunted The Seven-Year-Old Atheist. Further along, I swear I saw The Green Man leading a bunch tiny frogs. Some played miniature tambourines and others, the lyre. Was the ale taking effects or was I just hallucinating? Frankly, I was enjoying this land and wished for nothing more than another full night of partying.By the time the sun was fully up, all the magical creatures vanished. Instead, normal people set about their daily chores. I found myself standing in front of a rather large Victorian house. The name plate read, Max Gate. From within an upper window, I heard the unmistakable husky, throaty voice bellowing the words to What A Wonderful World. Apparently, Thomas Hardy listens to Louis Armstrong.Shields shows how comfortable he is living in both worlds. He makes poetry into music, something that certainly earns his good marks. The volume is one that flows relatively smoothly.However, to the beginner, parts of this volume might present challenges. For instance, Dirty Hands, Schism or the much loner The Circus Elephant. They might find themselves pouring over words, concepts and lines not fully appreciating the power, placement and or their history. They’d have no idea how much they miss. Thankfully, He does compensate for this with other rather easy to enjoy pieces Sundowning, or Pale Horse. Then, there is Forsythia. Regardless of one’s level, it is hard not to enjoy Forsythia; its warmness, beautiful layout, or its colorfulness.Perhaps the greatest physical property of this volume is its jacket coating. The feel of the cover is absolutely inviting. When not reading, it was a constant stroking partner. Being lightweight was just an icing. One can take it along without a bother. The paper is nothing spectacular. The font is small but legible and the position of the page numbers… let’s just say, presents ideas.Overall, if Shields puts out another book, I’d certainly queue for it.D. Othniel ForteA Liberian Christmas
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. Shield Shells Substance By Liberian Literature Review Shields shows some serious skills as he shells out the poems in Thomas Hardy listens to Louis Armstrong. Shields shreds some classic sounds, removing and reusing essential elements to weave into the fabric of his book.Shields spins these words into structured lines with the delicacy of a spinner; sewing each piece seamlessly to produce a great volume of poems. Shields schools his ‘students’ with the sagaciousness of a sage! Overall, he exhibits his mastery of two worlds- musical-poetry.Shields stunningly succeeds in shelling out a great book of poetry.Liberian Literature Review
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