JAZZ POEMS

ONE O’CLOCK JUMP

Still tingling with Basie’s hard cooking

between two sets I stood at the bar

when the man next to me ordered

scotch and milk. I looked to see who had

this stray taste and almost swooned

when I saw it was the master.

Basie knocked his shot back,

then, when he saw me gaping,

raised his milk to my peachy face

and rolled out his complete smile

before going off with friends

to leave me in that state of grace.

A year later I was renting rooms

from a woman named Tillie who wanted

no jazz in her dank, unhallowed house.

Objecting even to lowest volume of solo piano,

she’d puff upstairs to bang on my door.

I grew opaque, unwell,

slouched to other apartments,

begging to play records.

Duked, dePrezed, and unBased, l

onging for Billy, Monk, Brute, or Zoot,

I lived in silence through

that whole lost summer.

Still, aware of divine flavor, I bided time

and waited for the day of reckoning.

My last night in Tillie’s godless house,

late—when I knew she was hard asleep—

I gave her the full One O’Clock Jump,

having Basie ride his horse of perfect time

like an avenging angel over top volume,

hoisting his scotch and milk as he galloped

into Tillie’s ear, headlong down her throat

to roar all night in her sulphurous organs.

PAUL ZIMMER | 1934

American Society of Journalists and Authors Open Book Award

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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