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

More Posts: book,classic,collectible,history,jazz,library,poet