Jazz Poems

ART PEPPER

It’s the broken phrases, the fury inside him.

Squiggling alto saxophone playing out rickets

And jaundice, a mother who tried to kill him

In her womb with a coat hanger, a faltering

God-like father. The past is a bruised cloud

Floating over the houses like a prophecy,

The terrible foghorns off the shore at San Pedro.

Lightning without thunder. Years without playing.

Years of blowing out smoke and inhaling fire,

Junk and cold turkey, smacking up, the habit

Of cooking powder in spoons, the eyedroppers,

The spikes. Tracks on both arms. Tattoos.

The hospital cells at Fort Worth, the wire cages

In the L.A. County, the hole at San Quentin.

And always the blunt instrument of sex, the pain

Bubbling up inside him like a wound, the small

Deaths. The wind piercing the sheer skin

Of a dark lake at dawn. The streets at 5 a.m.

After a cool rain. The smoky blue clubs.

The chords of Parker, of Young, of Coltrane.

Playing solo means going on alone, improvising,

Hitting the notes, ringing the changes,

It’s clipped phrasing and dry ice in summer,

Straining against the rhythms, speeding it up,

Loping forward and looping back, finding the curl

In the wave, the mood in the air. It’s

Splintered tones and furious double timing.

It’s leaving the other instruments on stage

And blowing freedom into the night, into the faces

Of emptiness that peer along the bar, ghosts

Shallow hulls of nothingness, Hatred of God.

Hatred of white skin that never turns black.

Hatred of Patti, of Dianne, of Christine.

A daughter who grew up without him, a stranger.

Years of being strung out, years without speaking.

Pauses and intervals, silence. A fog rolling

Across the ocean, foghorns in the distance.

A lighthouse rising from the underworld.

A moon swelling in the clouds, an informer,

A twisted white mouth of light. Scars carved

And criscrossed on his chest. The memory

Of nodding out, the dazed drop-off into sleep.

And then the curious joy of surviving, joy

Of waking up in a dusky room to a gush

Of fresh notes, a tremoring sheet of sound.

Jamming again. Careening through the scales

For the creatures who haunt the night.

Bopping through the streets in a half-light

With Laurie on his arm, a witness, a believer.

The night is going to burst inside him.

The wind is going to break loose forever

From his lungs. It’s the fury of improvising,

Of going on alone. It’s the fierce clarity

Of each note coming to an end, distinct,

Glistening. The alto’s full-bodied laughter

The white grief-stricken wail.

EDWARD HIRSCH

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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