Jazz Poems
CHARLES PARKER: ALMOST LIKE BEING IN LOVE
These are the shadows of water when water
is thick and no longer transparent
They are everywhere–on the walls
across the ceiling.
It was always this good.
One night you undressed me in your sleep.
Very slowly, you told me later. You said I smelled good.
The sweater i said I’d taken it
out of the drawer where I kept
my winter clothes.
It smelled of pine and a long summer.
No, you said. Not wood.
More like the inside of a saxophone case,
all velvet and sweet regrets.
All blues, I said. Blues
and whatever shadows are made of,
I said, falling on you like slow water.
DIONISIO D. MARTINEZfrom Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young
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Jazz Poems
CHARLES PARKER 1920~1955
Listen
This here
Is what
Charlie
Did
To the Blues.
Listen
That there
Is what
Charlie
Did
To the Blues.
This here,
bid-dle-dee-dee
bid-dle-dee-dee
bopshop
have you any cool?
bahdada
one horn full.
Charlie
Filled the Blues
With
Curly-cues.
That’s what
Charlie
Did
To the Blues.
Play
That again
Drop
A nickel in,
Charlie’s
Dead
Charlie’s
Gone,
But
John Birks
Carried on.
Drop
A nickel in,
Give
The platter
A spin,
Let’s listen
To what
Charlie
Did
To the Blues.
WARING CUNEY
from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young
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Jazz Poems
ELEVEN
From Velvet Bebop Kente Cloth
There ain’t/No word
I ain’t/Heard
ain’t/No word
Bird/Ain’t heard
Language is an/Inventor’s
>Privilege
I/Blow psalms.
I/Blow sinners’ deeds.
I/Blow prayer before death.
I/Blow curses.
I/Blow laughter.
I/Blow vocabulary of my axe.
You can’t/Hold
folks/Down who Be-Bop
but you/Kin hold
them/Up.
Every Be-Bopper/Renew
his/Subscriptions
to/Genius when he riff some
thing/New on his axe.
STERLING D. PLUMPP
from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young
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Jazz Poems
IN PRAISE OF BUDDY BOLDEN
- You have shown me dissipation, the tome, the rhythm, and cool sonorous blue…
- The right consciousness is always dream, it wakes in us ideology and topos.
- Not only the blues like melic, like persimmon and soda.
- Not anything, just blonde sorrow.
- I can’t wait to choose my own fall, the bass and pica.
- Did you taste the drug, the white words of sound…
- Nothing will prepare me, not even drums and delusion. I wander in their halls, their tantrums. But mine was apparatus and rebellion. The plumb edifice of transgression.
- When we play, nothing else matters, not the placards on the train, not the yet and the how. We find plums and pendulums.
- I told them that this was not enough. No horses, no shoulders, no fields to drown, only blankcotton testimony and confession.
- When we leave, we leave the pipe and parts of the body. You whistle like a factory. Me, like an empty room.
- I would like to test myself, and remove these old tunings and feathers, these tulips.
- Do it then. Leave for the salty tincture of the city, the North.
- The leaves were all cankered when I returned. Like a salvo I burned. Not for them. Not for this place. But for this rotten reflection. The only true rejection of process.
- You meant to leave the phonetic terror of the moon, the New Orleans horn of sand and distraction.
- Leave me to fall. For this is all that I know. I accept, I accept this black stone of mine, mine own three lives, my crime.
LUCIEN QUINCY
from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young
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Jazz Poems
FOR MILES
Your sound is faultless
pure & round
holy
almost profound
Your sound is your sound
true & from within
a confession
soulful & lovely
Poet whose sound is played
lost or recorded
but heard
can you recall that 54 night at the Open Door
when you & bird
wailed five in the morning some wondrous
yet unimaginable score?
GREG CORSO | 1930~2001
Youngest of the inner circle of Beat Generation writers with Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and William S. Burroughs
from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young
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