Edith Wright and Jo Stafford

25 10 2015

Jo Stafford

11 11 2009


Jo Stafford V4BV

Jo Stafford (November 12, 1917 – July 16, 2008)

The Chesterfield Supper Club. Radio Show. Where dinner was never served. Singing tongue in cheek. A lot of coughing. Jo Stafford. Entertained. Perfect pitch. She could have played for the Yankees.

Outside in the alley. Three wise men danced a jig. Knocking at every door. Not lovers. Messengers. Crooners out of tune. The 1st Polaroid. Pornographic pictures. Of  Miranda. Uranus’s famous moon.

(Time hardly seems to move at all.)

A paramour in the closet. A letter in the vanity. Feelings both brave and lonely. A shadow stood in the corner. A stocking flung over his shoulder. Smiling. She threw an ashtray. Wondering how long he would stay.

We didn’t get married and he’s dead now. I hear it every time I tear up. Because I never stopped loving him. The interviewer wept. Moments later. Jo died. At age 90. Let’s grieve. But not yet.

Watch the fog set over the harbour. A flash of light was observed in a crater. On the moon.  Like a spotlight. On the stage. And a beautiful blond. Singing goodbye.

Sinatra stood at the microphone. A cigarette in his fingers. Some kind of disruption behind. Turned around. There stood grinning Satchel Paige. At 42. Pitched his 1st major league complete game. Took that white ball. And painted it. Transparent.

Old sailors no longer get their pants pressed. And the fleet is sleeping. In the noon day shade. The dust has settled. The war was won. And the retirement homes are run by government men. Dying of congestive heart failure. Jo Stafford leaned. Her cheek. Against the moon. And smiled one last time.

Glenn Taylor. Such a tall man. Idaho Senator. Arrested in Birmingham. Alabama. For walking through a door. Marked “for Negroes”. And Jo Stafford left us. Almost without saying a word. And it wouldn’t have mattered if you had heard.

Whispering Hope

30 07 2008

Jo Stafford

Jo Stafford

This poem prose is about Jo Stafford. As you can see she was quite the hot tomali in her time. A lot of female singers were expected to be ornamental as well as have a good voice. And they were also expected to slip into the background. The last thing a bandleader wanted was for his band to play behind the lead singer.

YouTube – Jo Stafford & Gordon MacRae – Whispering Hope


Whispering Hope

July 13, 2008 by Maynard G. Krebbs

A voice from the choir. Filling a crystal glass. Jo Stafford. B.1917. Distantly related to the war hero, Sergeant York. Her voice. Perrrfect peeetch. Should have played for the Yankees. Outside in the rain three sailors were pounding at her door. Not lovers. Making a seee- creee-tive-ran-day-vu. Messenger boys. Delivering Jo. To the USO. Nicknamed GI Jo. Her and Sinatra. Frankie and Jo. Mikes side by side. Cheek to cheek. The horns of Tommy Dorsey’s orchestra. Blazing chaperones. Jo hosted The Chesterfield Supper Club. Radio show. Some singing. Some jokes. A lot of coughing. A paramour. Standing in her closet. Feeling foolish and alone. Silk stockings draped over his shoulder. Peeking through the wooden blinds. Sinatra walked in. Without knocking. She threw an ashtray at him. He laughed. And left her standing there. A face wet with rage. Moments later she died at 90 years of age. In the company of fools and angels. Her big hit was playing. You Belong To Me. There was a letter on the vanity. An old fan. This is such a beautiful song! It was mine and an old boyfriends favorite song. We didn’t get married and he’s dead now. I hear it every time I tear up. Because I never stopped loving him. And Sinatra stood in the hall. Toe tapping. Grinning. Fingers fading away. And old sailors no longer get their pants pressed. And the fleet is in moth balls. The dust has settled. The war was won. And the hospitals. Are run by government men. Dying of lung cancer.

I Know I’m Guilty Of Something

22 07 2008

Jo Stafford singing Whispering Hope

I Know I’m Guilty Of Something

July 17, 2008 by Maynard G. Krebs

“I am not innocent. Of anything. I wake up feeling guilty. Sometimes I think they’ll come and get me. In the middle of the night. In their black Buicks. In their long black leather overcoats. And their heavy black shoes. Come just when I’m not suspecting it. When I’m happy. Thinking the world is a great place to live in. Noticing some small miracle in my garden. Remembering something funny my grandfather told me. (Who the hell is my grandfather?) They’ll come stomping up that long flight of steps. And I won’t hear them. Because I’m listening to Jo Stafford singing Whispering Hope. With my head phones on. Whispering so no one can hear me. Stomping up with their clear fascist innocence. Doing their job. And the cat at the top of the stairs will cry out. But its cry with be too faint. And in the end would it make any real difference. The world has always been like this. A place where people are dragged off into the middle of the night. Disappearing in the darkness. And history never records their plight. Only refers to them in an aside, things happened. Something terrible is always happening. Ignorance is no excuse under the law. And yet we pretend not to have heard their screams. And in all this evil, I feel as if I must have murdered someone. Buried them in the backyard. I have committed some hideous crime. Why else would they come for me? Why else would I have this weight in my heart? Always dragging down my spirits. My shrink says that I’m delusional. Paranoid. He says that I’m hiding myself in Maynard G. Krebs. Hiding myself in an American. Across the border. And there is some truth to this. America frightens me. When I step onto American soil, I feel that it could be my last. Some Sicilian mobster is going to mow me down. Or a black brother is going to cut my legs out from beneath me in a drive-by. Or the cops are going to drag me into an ally and show me why America doesn’t need medical coverage. You never live to use it. And yet I have a fantasy. To be a swabber. Some poor lout on an ancient ship. Heading into a fog without the whisper of land. So afraid that all you can think of is the next moment. Instead of the one you’re breathing.”