At the February 26, 2017 meeting of the Connecticut Accordion Association (See article in this months publication”, two poems were read titled “I Am An Accordion.”

The first version was written by the wife of the late Charles
Leogrande. Barbara Leogrande Genovese (she subsequently remarried) worked in her late husband’s studio in Waterbury, CT in the heyday of the accordion in the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s.

Charlie died in his mid 40’s, but taught hundreds of fine accordion students who competed at state and national levels. Bob Vitale taught for Charlie, who was an accomplished jazz accordionist. Vitale eventually broke away and opened his own studio.

The second version of The Poem was written and then delivered right after Barbara’s, while the two of them stood next to each other. Penned by our own Cody Mc Sherry, it delivers a clear message of hope and excitement about the accordion and how it the accordion is perceived by a young person who is currently studying and playing it. Cody is studying accordion with Mary Tokarski.

It was a powerful moment at our meeting. Enjoy!

Second version of “I am an Accordion” by Cody McSherry:

My voice is more treasured than gold,
I am loved by many,
From the Americas to Europe, to Asia,
My beautiful voice is adored.

From my pearly white keys,
To my small bass buttons,
To my constantly breathing bellows,
I am perfect.

Some do not know my beauty,
For they have never met me,
But given the chance,
I will steal their hearts away, too.

The children love me,
My voice surprises them,
Something new and interesting,
That will strike their fancy.

They will want to play me,
I would not blame them,
For I am amazing,
And children see it so.

And when they play me,
They feel me breathe with them,
I become a part of them,
And they a part of me.

Come, come enjoy me,
Wrap your arms around me,
Become a part of me,
And let me become a part of you.

Surrounded by those who love me,
I am never lonely,
Always a song within me,
I am cherished.

First version of “I AM AN ACCORDION” by Barbara Leogrande Genovese:

Once the center of entertainment, enjoyment and recognition as well as the heart and soul of a society that longed for beauty and merriment, people came from far and wide to see and hear me. It was 1950 and I was the answer to the new ideas of this great country.

Having no means of walking, I was strapped over the shoulders of people who loved me, who breathed life into me. They pushed and pulled my lungs to make the most magical sounds that became music to their ears. On my right side, flying fingers ran up and down my white tentacles and short black stubs. On my left side, with a diamond in the center, rows and rows of black buttons resembled a river of rocks in a bed of white water expecting to be fondled.

Children would run their little fingers up and down all over me. I loved the sensation and expelled sounds only a satisfied lover would hear.

On my TV show I glowed in my celebrity, responding with sounds higher than a human could comprehend and enjoyed the acclimations given to me. From the concert halls to the family festivities I was treated with elegance and care in a style suited for a king.

It is now 1960. With the passing of time, my place of importance has faded. A younger and more compact lover has replaced me. To my audience, I became cumbersome and awkward. My lungs were decomposing and developing holes. The pushing and pulling of air out of me I could no longer control. The white of my tentacles had turned yellow, the short black stubs had become brittle to navigate and the river of black marbles had become impossible to fondle.

Once magical sounds from my being became sounds of an old person’s garble. I began to feel like the ugly duckling. It was time for me to retire. My old heart could not bear it any longer. Children of today will not be aware that I once provided enjoyment and pleasure for those who wanted to hold and caress me.

I rest now in this silk lined coffin with a beautiful covering over my belly of bellows and black buttons. On the floor of this closed jail under a pile of junk, I wait not to be exposed, not to be fondled, not to be caressed and loved, but to be sold. At a tag sale! For a song, no doubt!