Jazz Poems

JELLY WROTE

jelly wrote, 

                      you should be walking on four legs

                      but now you’re walking on two,

                      you know you come directly from the

                                    animal famulee

& you do. but dr jive

the winding boy, whose hands only work

was music & pushing

“certain ignorant light skin women” to the corner

was never animal

was never beast in storeyville, refining

a touch for ivory on pool green

with the finest of whorehouse ragtime; use even

for the “darker niggers music. rough,” jelly wrote

“but they loved it in the tenderloin.”

o the tall & chancey, the ladies’

fancy, the finest boy for miles around,

“your salty dog,” but with diamond incisors,

shooting the agate under a stetson sky

his st louis flats winked into

aaah, mr jelly

A.B. Spellman 

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

COLTRANE, SYEEDA’S SONG FLUTE

For M & P.R.

When I came across it on the

piano it reminded me of her,

because it sounded like a

happy, child’s song.

COLTRANE

To Marilyn, to Peter,

playing , making things: the walls, the stairs,

the attics, bright nests in nests;

the slow, light, grave unstitching of lies,

opening, stinking, letting in air

you bear yourselves in, become your own mother

and father

your own child.

You lying closer.

You going along. Days.

The strobe-lit wheel stops dead

once, twice in a life: old-fashioned rays:

and then all the rest of the time pulls blur,

only you remember it more, playing.

Listening here in the late quiet you can think

great things of us all, I think we will all, Coltrane,

meet speechless and easy in Heaven, our names

known and forgotten, all dearest, all come

giant-stepping

out into some wide, light, merciful mind.

John

Coltrane, 40, gone

right through the floorboards,

up to the shins, up to the eyes,

closed over,

Syeeda’s happy, child’s song

left up here, playing.

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

BILLIE HOLIDAY 

Here lies a lady. Day was her double pain,

Pride and compassion equally gone wrong.

At night she sang, “Do you conceive my song?”

And answered in her torn voice, “Don’t explain.”

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

MUSIC FOR HOMEMADE INSTRUMENTS

improvising with Douglas Ewart

I dug your artless, I dug you out. Did you re-do? You dug me less, art. You dug, less do art. You dug me, less art. Did you re-do? If I left art out, you dug. My artless dug-out. You dug, let art out. Did you re-do, dug-out canoe? Easy as a porkpie piper-led cinch. Easy as a baby bounce. Hop on pot, tin pan man. Original abstract, didyou re-do it? Betting on shy cargo, strutting dimpled low-cal strumpets employ a hipster to blow up the native formica. Then divide efficiency on hairnets,flukes, faux saxons. You dug me out, didn’t you? Did you re-do? Ever curtained to experiment with strumpet strutting. Now curtains to milk laboratory. Desecrated flukes & panics displayed by mute politicians all over this whirly-gig. Hey, you dug! Art lasts. Did you re-do? Well-known mocker of lurching unused brains, tribal & lustrous diddlysquats, Latin dimension crepe paper & muscular stacks. Curtains for perky strumpets strutting with mites in the twilight of their origami funkier purses. Artless, you dig. Did you re-do? For patting wood at flatland, thanks. For bamboozled flukes at Bama, my seedy medication. Thanks for my name in the yoohoo. Continental camp-out, percolating throughout the whirly-gig on faux saxon flukes. You dig art, didn’t you? Did you re-do?

Harryette Mullen

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

Dead forty years Bird brings his lips to the reed.

He rules the roost, and rues the rest,

Do wot-jadda bop.

Recovered from the shock

The war veteran Hitler found the doctor

Who cured his hysterical deafness,

And had the man killed , hoping that I

Might never exist to tell the story here,

A little distorted.

But Illinois Jacquet playing ‘Round Midnight

On the bassoon, better even

Than the death speech of Falstaff.

And listen, Moshe Leib Halpern, I

Have a miracle cabinet

Made in Japan–listen.

ROBERT PINSKY | 1940

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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