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The 2026  Pushcart Prize anthology

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Dear Contributing Writers and Readers:

…..The Pushcart Prize is described by the New York Times as “a distinguished annual literary event” that is, in the opinion of Kirkus Reviews, “must reading for anyone interested in the present and future of America’s arts and letters.”

…..Established in 1976 by Bill Henderson – who still serves as its editor and publisher – the Pushcart Prize was founded to recognize and celebrate the best work published by independent publishers during the calendar year.  Over the years, thousands of writers have been honored, nominated by hundreds of small press publishers.

…..I am pleased to report that I have nominated the maximum-allowed six writers for this esteemed award – version L (50)–  whose work appeared on the pages of Jerry Jazz Musician or within print anthologies I edited during 2025.  They are:

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“J.A. Rogers’ ‘Jazz at Home’: A Centennial Reflection on Jazz Representation Through the Lens of Stormy Weather and Everyday Life“ – an essay by Jasmine M. Taylor

“Bluesette” – a short story by Salvatore Difalco

“My Vertical Landscape“ – a short story by Felicia A. Rivers

“While Reading Japanese Poetry,” by Francis Fernandes (appeared in the book Kinds of Cool:  An Interactive Collection of Jazz Poetry, Vol. I” – published below)

“Angela Davis Listens to a Smuggled-In Tape of Louis Armstrong’s ‘Black and Blue’ Over and Over While in Solitary Confinement in the Women’s Detention Center, 1970,” by George Kalamaras  (appeared in the book Kinds of Cool:  An Interactive Collection of Jazz Poetry, Vol. I” – published below)

“Songs for Dexter,” by Arya F. Jenkins (appeared in the book Kinds of Cool:  An Interactive Collection of Jazz Poetry, Vol. I” – published below)

 

 

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…..Selecting six writers from among the hundreds of authors and poets whose work has been published on Jerry Jazz Musician this year is no small task, and it is not taken lightly.  Serious consideration is given to countless worthy writers.  The six chosen represent everyone who has contributed to this growing community, one that I humbly submit is the most vibrant and relevant anywhere in the world whose mission is to connect jazz music and its culture to a literary appreciation of it.

…..Congratulations to the six nominees, and thanks to the many writers whose enthusiasm for sharing their work with interested readers makes this community possible.

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…..Here are the nominees from last year’s Pushcart competition:

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“Tropical Cool, Uneventful” a poem by Terrence Underwood

“The Old Casino” a short story by J.B. Marlow

“On Coltrane: 4th of July Reflections,” a poem by Connie Johnson

“Ballad,” a short story by Lucia Leao

“Nina and Maria Esther,” a poem by Juan Mobili

“Not From Around Here,” a short story by Jeff Dingler

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Sincerely,

Joe Maita

Editor/Publisher/Founder

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(To visit the Pushcart website, click here).

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These Pushcart Prize nominated poems were published in Kinds of Cool: An Interactive Collection of Jazz Poetry, Vol. I

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While Reading Japanese Poetry 

I’m reading those famous Japanese lines
about the autumn colours transforming
the trees and the poet knowing he can’t stop
time and will therefore lose his beloved,
when a piece of paper drops gently
onto my lap. It falls out from another
place in the book, flits briefly in its
freedom, then lies in front of me,
like a leaf from one of those Far East
maples, blanched by the passing centuries.
I pick it up and unfold it. No parched
veins or crinkling blade. Just an old
receipt for a ukulele. Yes, I remember
now – the blue ukulele, something
I thought might amuse you when
you were two and always giggling and
saying Why? over and over again. I tuned
the strings and found the chords to
Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off:
You say potayto, I say potahto. Your
tiny hands dancing in the air
like brilliant puffs of cloud as you
shrieked with joy. That was then.
And now? Well, you’re a teenager now.
The cicadas, noisy and tireless out
in the sagebrush, sound like they’re
jamming on washboards, we’re on holiday
here, and the warm sun is filling the sky
with a hazy white light, as we hunker
down in the coolness of our rooms.
And when I knock and open your door,
to ask if you’ll join us for a round
of your favourite game, you casually
shoo me away. Propped up on your bed
with those white music buds planted
in your ears, your black jeans torn
in so many places I once joked
there were more holes than material,
like the dark matter in the universe,
or like the silences in a John Cage piece.
That wasn’t funny, of course. You huffed
and gave me the old sardonic ha ha.
But now, as I close the door, I happen
to glance at your hands: they’re holding
that glowing screen before your eyes –
your own device for cracking space
and time – and it hits me that all’s good,
we are constantly calling the whole
thing off, you and me: you going a little
bit this way, and me going a little bit
that way, and of course if we were
ever to part and we never saw each
other again, then that would surely
break my heart – to no end – but hey,
here’s the thing: the song of the earth
in the late-spring heat plays on and
on, one note saying after, the other
arfter, one laughter, the other larfter,
until what happens, as we all know,
is that the whole calling off thing gets
called off, which brings me back
to those perennial scenes of bright
autumn leaves weaving and whirling
and thrumming and tumbling
through the air – tumbling like a piece
of paper suddenly released forever,
a creased page with these very words
on it, outdated, ancient, cuneiform,
dropping out of a book that you
happen to be reading in some
distant future – the paper falling,
………………………………….flitting,
……….looping,
………………………………………circling,
………………and landing

………………………………………………….softly
in the bowl
……………………………….of your lap.

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by Francis Fernandes

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Angela Davis Listens to a Smuggled-In Tape of Louis Armstrong’s “Black and Blue” Over and Over While in Solitary Confinement in the Women’s Detention Center, 1970

Somehow 1970 is still 1929 all over again ……..for her

……..Somehow this man and his voice of damp gravel

Rakes through her chest …….. her woman black-and-blue

……..Chest ……..How can 1970 be 1929 …………… 1865

Even August 1619 at Point Comfort, Virginia?

……..When twenty to thirty of her brothers and sisters

Stepped off the privateer ship, White Lion, and were the first

……..To enter the mouth of the wild white beast ……..Still

There are open wounds that are not cliché …………open

……..In this voice in ……..Louis Armstrong’s arm-strong

Voice ……..Huey ……..Bobby Seale ……..and Fred Hampton

……..Beret-clad and armed …………..said ……..Stop …….. Wait

Listen …………. the black and blue they hear ……..—with Angela—

……..Is a deaf white crow pillaging road-kill

From their ribs …….. What did I do? ……..What

……..Did I do to be so black and blue? Louis wailed

As if sandpaper in the throat …….. as if handfuls of hail

……..In a copper gutter ….. ………..as if Black colleges

Secreted in basements of a community church

……..Dragged broken seashells ……..across vocal chords

Of the poverty song …….. He couldn’t speak it just right,

……..Angela thought, ……..Louis couldn’t

Quite up-in-their-face, …….. ……..singing he was White inside

……..O Brother Louis she loves you …….. ……..Angela loves

You just the same ……..Sister Simone ……..she calls out to you

Max Roach with your … ….. …………….“Tryptich:

Prayer/Protest/Peace” …… ……….is also there

……..She knew …….. in what 1929 did not …….. ……..allow

Armstrong to say ……..Along with Louis, you made Angela’s

……..“Solitary” self salivate with the lamb’s tongue of how

What she says he says …….. as the moon pours forth drunk

……..On its own …….. ….. ………..backwoods

Juice … ………….Her afro glistening …….. ……..even behind

……..These walls …….. …….. bowing in wind

In ways that stand up ……. ……… and absorb hammer blows

……..Of wind ….. ………..What did I do? What did I do

To be so black and blue? Oh, how the panther

……..Meets the White Lion on the purposeful plains

Of the throat …… ……….a guttered copper-gutter

……..Throat ….. ………..a voice of damp gravel stuffed

And scuffed ….. .. ……………..In a Louis Armstrong voice

……..Stinging its way into a wind …….. a solitary whirl

A wind …… ……….only the dark of the night’s dark

……..Could conceive ……..where all life begins in the deep

Black stamp of starlight ……..sprayed against cave

……..Walls ……. ………of the womb’s watery world

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by George Kalamaras

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Songs for Dexter 

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Stop, Listen

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Wandering through useless time wondering where it went. Listening to Dexter smoothing away the wrinkles of inevitabilities, the long slow ride to emptiness we all must face, his tenor sax making the journey seem mellow, even tender: come into my sound, the arms of these notes will let you curl up inside sweetness for a while. Don’t forget jazz plays past the obscuring hour of night. And dawn that brings cold realizations. Music can tenderize your dreams. So tuck aside heartache for now, even if you must return to it. For now just stop, listen, feel the piano’s trill, the pulse of these swishing drums, the sexy dives and escalations of this song rendering time’s ceaseless flow. Listen friend, put pain to bed, take a long overdue sip of love.

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II

I’m Reporting You

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For breaking through the ice of now, sending this moment on a crazy, sexy ride I won’t forget. Is this Paris? London? What country have you taking me to without my permission? All I promised to do was listen. And here we are a century ago, before my own beginning, waltzing across bridges, gazing over timeless stars and gleaming water below, everything the night won’t let go. I only promised to listen. Not to leave my island of comfort, hopeless love and longings on which I’ve relied so long, so long. Only you and your music know. But here you are and I am with you, traveling further and further away from everything, fully awake in a time and place I won’t forget. So don’t set me free. Not yet. Just keep playing.

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III

For the Ballads

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Here’s my final incantation for you, for today anyway. Were it not for your ballads heard under headphones while climbing those crazy hills to Cornell having just heard my mother was going to die, snow starting to fall, things changing irreparably, nothing I could do about it. My heart sped, trying to run away but you enfolded it in your music, reassuring me, it’ll be OK. Been there too. No going back from everything we have to, have to endure. But I can lullaby you through it. You’ll sleep, maybe dream a little listening to these songs, forget it’s all up to you. When you feel like god assigned you his burdens and there’s nowhere to go, come, listen while I play into your hollows, hopelessness and history, and make space for goodness and flowers to come. That’s what these ballads are for, why we are where we are after this long journey. There’s the sun, maybe another hill. For now let’s not go home. Let’s just listen to our heartbeats, feel the love.

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by Arya F. Jenkins

 

 

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