Jazz Poems

JAZZ BAND Play that thing, you jazz mad fools! Boil a skyscraper with a jungle Dish it to ‘em sweet and hot— Ahhhhhhhhh Rip it open then, sew it up, jazz band! Thick bass notesfrom a moon faced drum Saxophones moan, banjo strings hum High thin notes from the cornet’s throat Trombone snorting, bass horn snorting Short tan notes from the piano And the short tan notes from the piano Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Chopin gone screwy, Wagner with the blues Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Got a date with Satan—ain’t no time to lose Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Strut it in Harlem, let Fifth Avenue shake it slow Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Ain’t goin’ to heaven nohow— crowd up there’s too slow Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Plunk Do that thing, jazz band! Whip it to a jelly Sock it, rock it; heat it, beat it; then fling it at ‘em Let the jazz stuff fall like hail on king and truck driver queen and laundress, lord and laborer, banker and bum Let it fall in London, Moscow, Paris, Hongkong, Cairo, Buenos Aires, Chicago, Sidney Let it rub hard thighs, let it be molten fire in the veins of dancers Make ‘em shout a crazy jargon of hot hosannas to a Fiddle-faced jazz god Send Dios, Jehovah, Gott, Allah, Buddha past in a high stepping cake walk Do that thing, jazz band! Your music’s been drinking hard liquor Got shanghied and it’s fightin’ mad Stripped to the waist feedin’ ocean liner bellies Big burly bibulous brute Poet hands and bone crusher shoulders Black sheep or white? Hey, Hey! Pick it, papa Twee twa twee twa twa Step on it, black boy Do re mi fa so la ti do Boomp boomp Play that thing, you jazz mad fools!

FRANK MARSHALL DAVIS

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

HOMAGE TO LITERATURE When you imagine trumpet-faced musicians blowing again inimitable jazz no art can accuse nor canonadings hurt, or coming out of your dreams of dirigibles again see the unreasonable cripple throwing his crutch headlong as the headlights streak down the torn street, as the three hammerers go One, Two, Three on the stake, triphammer poundings and not a sign of new worlds to still the heart; then stare into the lake of sunset as it runs boiling, over the west past all control rolling and swamps the heartbeat and repeats sea beyond sea after unbearable suns; think poems fixed this landscape: Blake, Donne, Keats. MURIEL RUKEYSER

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

BRINGING JAZZ (Odd-numbered lines spoken slowly even -numbered ones quickly) Last night I had an oboe dream— Whistlers in a box-car madness bringing jazz Their faces stormed in a hobo-gleam, Blinding all the grinding wheels and singing jazz. The box-car gloried in its dirt— Just as hallelujah made of chanting mud. And one old bum opened up his shirt Showing wounds of music in his ranting blood. The hoboes sang with scorching notes Burning up the pain into a gale of jazz, While sadness poured in their shaking throats, Like a molten bugle in a wail of jazz. The rails were jails for death and rust— Holding up the cruel, dark blue speed of jazz— But life still stirred underneath their crust— Little hums and clicks brought by the need of jazz. Within the box-car, hoboes leaped— Fatalists and pagan in a carefree trap— And when they sang of hungers reaped, Bread and wine of sound came from a dark god’s lap! The hoboes made a fox-trot blaze— Scorning women, gliding in a sexless dance— And on their coats of ragged baize- Ghosts of orchids fluttered down and looked askance! The jungle sent a moan of sound—- Made it blend into an oathof northern grime. A music came, flaring and profound, Flayed with rapture half repelled and half sublime. And then I saw the dream’s dark spring—- Hurricanes of jazz born from the underworld. “Saint Louie Gal with a diamond ring” Danced with mobs of hoboes while the thunder swirled! MAXWELL BODENHEIM 

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

CABARET (1927, Black & Tan Chicago) Rich, flashy, puffy-faced, Hebrew and Anglo-Saxon, The overlords sprawlhere with their glittering darlings, The smoke curls thick, in the dimmed light Surreptitiously, deaf-mute waiters Flatter the grandees, Going easily over the rich carpets, Wary lest they kick over the bottles Under the tables. The jazzband unleashes its frenzy. Now, now To it Roger; that’s a nice doggie Show your tricks to the gentlemen The trombone belches, and the saxophone Wails curdingly, the cymbals clash, The drummer twitches in an epileptic fit Muddy water Round my feet Muddy water The chorus sways in. The “Creole Beauties from New Orleans” (By way of Atlanta, Louisville, Washington, Yonkers, With stop-overs they’ve used nearly all their lives) Their creamy skin flushing rose warm O, le bal des belle quarterounes! Their shapely bodies naked save For tattered pink silk bodices, short velvet tights, Red bandanas on their sleek and close-clipped hair; To bring to mind (aided by the bottles under the tables) Life upon the river— Muddy water, river sweet (Lafitte the pirate, instead, And his doughty diggers of gold) There’s peace and happiness there I declare (In Arkansas, Poor half-naked fools, tagged with identification numbers, Worn out upon the levees, Are carted back to the serfdom They had never left before And may never leave again Bee—dap—ee-–DOOP, dee—ba—dee—BOOP The girls wiggle and twist Oh you too, Proud high-stepping beauties Show your paces to the gentlemen. A prime filly, seh. What am I offered, gentlemen, gentlemen…. I’ve been away a year today To wander and roar I don’t care if it’s muddy there (Now that the floods recede, What is there left the miserable folks? Oh time in abundance to count their losses, There is so little else to count.) Still it’s my home, sweet home From the lovely throats Moans and deep cries for home: Nashville, Toledo, Spout Springs, Boston, Creoles from Germantown;— The bodies twist and rock; The glasses are filled up again…. (In Mississippi The black folk huddle, mute, uncomprehending Wondering “how come the good Lord Could treat them this a way”) shelter Down to the Delta (Along the Yahoo The buzzards fly over, over, low Glutted, but with their scrawny necks stretching, Peering still.) I’ve got my toes turned Dixie ways Round that Delta let me laze The band goes mad, the drummer throws his sticks At the moon, a papier-maché moon, The chorus leaps into weird posturings, The firm-fleshed arms plucking at grapes to stain Their corralled mouths; seduction bodies weaving Bending, writhing, turning My heart cries out for MUDDY WATER (Down in the valleys The stench of the drying mud Is a bitter reminder of death Dee da dee DAAAAH STERLING A. BROWN

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

OL’ BUNK’S BAND These are men! the gaunt, unfore- sold, the vocal, blatant, Stand up, stand up! the slap of a bass-string Pick, ping! The horn, the hollow horn long drawn out, a hound deep tone— Choking, choking! while the treble reed races–alone, ripples, screams slow to fast— to second to first! These are men! Drum, drum, drum, drum, drum drum, drum! the ancient cry, escaping crapulence eats through transcendent—torn, tears, term town, tense, turns and back off whole, leaps up, stomps down, rips through! These are men beneath whose force the melody limps— to proclaim—Run and lie down, in slow measures, to rest and not never need no more! These are men! Men!

WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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