Jazz Poems

HERE WHERE COLTRANE IS

Soul and race

are private dominions

memories and modal

songs, a tenor blossoming,

which would paint suffering

a clear color, but is not in

this Victorian house

without oil in zero degree

weather and a forty-mile-an-hour wind;

it is all a well-knit family:

a love supreme.

Oak leaves pile up on walkway

and steps, catholic as apples

in a special mist of clear white

children who love my children.

I play”Alabama”

on a warped record player

skipping the scratches

on your faces over the fibrous

conical hairs of plastic

under the wooden floors.

Dreaming on a train from New York

to Philly, your hand out six

notes which become an anthem

to our memories of you:

oak, birch, maple,

apple, cocoa, rubber.

For this reason Martin is dead;

for this reason Malcolm is dead;

for this reason Coltrane is dead;

in the eyes of my first son are the browns

of these men and their music.

MICHAEL S. HARPER | 1938 ~ 2016

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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