Jazz Poems

LADY SINGS THE BLUES

Satin luscious, amber Beauty ceter-stage;

garden in her hair. If flowers could sing

they’d sound like this. That legendary scene:

the lady unpetals her song, the only light

in a room of smoke, nightclub tinkering

with lovers in the dark, cigarette flares,

gin & tonic. This is where the heartache

blooms. Forgot the holes

zippered along her arms. Forget the booze.

Center-stage, satin-tongue dispels a note.

Amber amaryllis, blue chanteuse, Amen.

If flowers could sing they’d sound like this.

                         *     *     *

This should be Harlem, but it’s not.

It’s Diana Ross with no Supremes.

Fox Theater, Nineteen Seventy-something.

Ma and me; lovers crowded in the dark.

The only light breaks on the movie-screen.

I’m a boy, but old enough to know Heartache.

We watch her rise and wither

like a burnt-out cliche. You know the story:

Brutal lush. Jail-bird. Scag queen.

In the asylum scene, the actresses’s eyes

are bruised; latticed with blood, but not quite sad

enough. She’s the star so her beauty persists.

Not like Billie fucked-up satin, hair museless,

heart ruined by the end.

                         *     *     * The houselights wake and nobody’s blue but Ma.

Billie didn’t sound like that, she says

as we walk hand in hand to the street.

Nineteen Seventy-something,

My lady hums, Good Morning Heartache,

My father’s in a distant place.

TERRANCE HAYES

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

THE SYNCOPATED CAKEWALK

My present life is a Sunday morning cartoon

In it, I see Miss Hand and her Five Daughters

rubbing myback and the backs of my legs

Nat King Cole provides the music and the words

It’s 1949, Finished with them, I take off

on a river boat, down the Mississippi, looking for work.

On deck the got the Original Dixieland Jazz Band

doing “Big Butter and Egg Man.”

A guru haas the cabin next to mine and everybody

who visits him whimpers something terrible!

Stood on deck after dinner watching the clouds

form faces and arms. The Shadow went

by giggling to himself.

An Illinois Central ticket fell from his pocket.

Snake Hips picked it up, ran.

Texas Shuffle, who sat in with the Band last night,

this morning, dropped his fiddlecases

in the ocean and did the Lindy all the way

to the dinning room

I got off at Freak Lips Harbor.

Boy from Springfield said he’d talk like Satch for me

for a dime. I gave him a Bird,

and an introductory note to the Duke of Ellington.

Found my way to the Ida B. Wells Youth Center.

Girl named Ella said I’d have to wait to see Mister B.

Everybody else was out to lunch.

In the waiting room got into a conversation

with a horse thief from Jump Back. Told him:

My past life is a Saturday morning cartoon.

In it, I’m jumping Rock Island freight cars, skipping

Peoria with Leadbelly; running from the man,

trying to prove my innocence. Accused of being

too complex to handle.

Meanwhile, Zoot, Sassy, Getz, Prez, Cootie, everybody

gives me a hand.

Finally, Mister B comes in. Asks about my future.

All I can say is, I can do the Cow Cow Boogie

on the ocean and hold my own in a chase chorus

among the best!

Fine, says Mister B, you start seven in the morning!

CLARENCE MAJOR

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

FOR SIDNEY BECHET

That note you hold, narrowing and rising, shakes

Like New Orleans reflected on the water,

And in all ears appropriate falsehood wakes,

Building for some a legendary Quarter

Of balconies, flower-baskets and quadrilles,

Everyone making love and going shares–

Oh, play that thing! Mute glorious Storyvilles

Others may license, grouping round their chairs

Sporting-house girls like circus tigers (priced

Far above rubies) to pretend their fads,

While scholars manqués nod around unnoticed

Wrapped up in personnels like old plaids.

On me your voice falls as they say love should,

Like an enormous yes. My Crescent City

Is where your speech alone is understood,

And greeted as the natural noise of good,

Scattering long-haired grief and scored pity.

PHILIP LARKIN

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

BLACK AND BLUE

(WHAT DID I DO TO BE SO BLACK AND BLUE)

VERSE

Out in the street,

Shufflin’ feet,

Couples passin’ two by two,

While here am I,

Left high and dry, black, and ‘cause i’m black I’m blue.

Browns and yellers

All have fellers,

Gentlemen prefer them light.

Wish I could fade,

Can’t makee the grade,

Nothin’ but dark days in sight.

REFRAIN

Cold empty bed,

Springs hard as lead,

Pains in my head,

Feels like old Ned,

What did I do

To be so black and blue?

No joys for me,

No company,

Even the mouse

Ran from my house,

All my life through

I’ve been so black and blue.I’m white

Inside,

It don’t help my case

‘Cause I

Can’t hide

What is on my face,ooh!

I’m so forlorn,

Life’s just a thorn,

My heart is torn,

Why was I born?

What did I do

To be so black and blue?

REFRAIN

Just ‘cause you’re black,

Folks think you lack,

They laugh at you

And scornyou too,

What did I do

To be so black and blue?

When you are near,

They laugh and sneer,

Set you aside

And you’re denied,

What did I do

To be so black and blue?

How sad I am

Each day I feel worse,

My mark of Ham

Seems to be a curse, ooh!

How will it end?

Ain’t got a friend,

My only sin

Is in my skin,

What did I do

To be so black and blue?

ANDY RAZAF | 1895~1973

MUSIC BY THOMAS “FATS” WALLER

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

JAZZ

It starts with an alto horn, and a young 

boy who’d grown faster than he should have, and 

who’d become great before he should have, and 

who sought for the source of the feeling deep in-

side before he should have. He stood in his room 

and started with a short burst of notes, and then 

sought the tone he’d felt inside him, but which 

he couldn’t match he couldn’t match by blowing. 

He blew, fast, and beautifully; seeking the right 

burst of notes, notes blown so fast that only God’s 

perfection would be a match for it. He tried for 

a tone that he’d never heard, but which he knew 

as a sensation of mystery, of greatness, a feeling 

that he was bigger than he seemed to be, could 

blow faster than his fingers were letting him,

could cry out the tone that cried within him. All 

this strained inside him, strained and drove him, 

pushed him and made him whip his fingers upon 

the valves of his horn until they hurt. And his 

lungs seemed to bleed inside; his eyes ran water,

and he kept blowing, and blowing, with his eyes 

closed to the white of the daytime and the touch 

of the wind and the sound of the fists banging 

at the door, and the bark of the voices outside

his door, shouting: Open up! It’s the police!

What’s going on in there?

FRANK LONDON BROWN

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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