Jazz Poems

SOLOING

My mother tells me she dreamed

of John Coltrane, a young Trane

playing his music with such joy

and contained energy and rage

she could not hold back her tears.

And sitting awake now, her hands

crossed in her lap, the tears start

in her blind eyes. The TV set

behind her is gray, expressionless.

It is late, the neighbors quiet,

even the city–Los Angeles–quiet.

I have driven for hours down 99,

>over the Grapevine into heaven

to be here. I place my left hand

on her shoulder, and she smiles.

What a world, a mother and son

finding solace in California

just where we told it would

be, among the palm trees and all-

night super markets pushing orange

back-lighted oranges at 2 A.M.

“He was alone,” she says, and does

not say, just as I am, “soloing.”

What a world, a great man half

her age comes to my mother

in sleep to give her the gift

of song, which–shaking the tears

away–she passes on to me, for now

I can hear the music of the world

in the silence and that word:

soloing. What a world–when I

arrived the great bowl of mountains

was hidden in a cloud of exhaust,

the sea spread out like a carpet

of oil, the roses I had bought

from Fresno browned on the seat

beside me, and I could have

turned back and lost the music.

PHILIP LEVINE

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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

Jazz Poems

From WRITTEN TO MUSIC EIGHT FOR ORNETTE’S MUSIC If the pain is greater than the difference as the bird in the night or the perfumes in the moon oh witch of question oh lips of submission in the flesh of summer the silver slipper in the sleeping forest if hope surpasses the question by the mossy spring in the noon of harvest between the pillars of silk in the luminous difference oh tongue of music oh teacher of splendor if the meat of the heart if the fluid of the wing as love if birth or trust as love as love time turns the tables the indifferent and blissful Spring saves all souls and seeds and slaves asleep dark Spring in the dark whispering human will words spoken by two kissing tongues hissing union Eve’s snake stars come on two naked bodies tumble through bodiless Christmas trees blazing like bees and rosebuds fire turns to falling powder lips relax and smile and sleep fire sweeps the hearth of the blood on far off red double stars they probate their own tied wills KENNETH REXROTH

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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

Jazz Poems

LADY SINGS THE BLUES

Satin luscious, amber Beauty ceter-stage;

garden in her hair. If flowers could sing

they’d sound like this. That legendary scene:

the lady unpetals her song, the only light

in a room of smoke, nightclub tinkering

with lovers in the dark, cigarette flares,

gin & tonic. This is where the heartache

blooms. Forgot the holes

zippered along her arms. Forget the booze.

Center-stage, satin-tongue dispels a note.

Amber amaryllis, blue chanteuse, Amen.

If flowers could sing they’d sound like this.

                         *     *     *

This should be Harlem, but it’s not.

It’s Diana Ross with no Supremes.

Fox Theater, Nineteen Seventy-something.

Ma and me; lovers crowded in the dark.

The only light breaks on the movie-screen.

I’m a boy, but old enough to know Heartache.

We watch her rise and wither

like a burnt-out cliche. You know the story:

Brutal lush. Jail-bird. Scag queen.

In the asylum scene, the actresses’s eyes

are bruised; latticed with blood, but not quite sad

enough. She’s the star so her beauty persists.

Not like Billie fucked-up satin, hair museless,

heart ruined by the end.

                         *     *     * The houselights wake and nobody’s blue but Ma.

Billie didn’t sound like that, she says

as we walk hand in hand to the street.

Nineteen Seventy-something,

My lady hums, Good Morning Heartache,

My father’s in a distant place.

TERRANCE HAYES

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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

Jazz Poems

THE SYNCOPATED CAKEWALK

My present life is a Sunday morning cartoon

In it, I see Miss Hand and her Five Daughters

rubbing myback and the backs of my legs

Nat King Cole provides the music and the words

It’s 1949, Finished with them, I take off

on a river boat, down the Mississippi, looking for work.

On deck the got the Original Dixieland Jazz Band

doing “Big Butter and Egg Man.”

A guru haas the cabin next to mine and everybody

who visits him whimpers something terrible!

Stood on deck after dinner watching the clouds

form faces and arms. The Shadow went

by giggling to himself.

An Illinois Central ticket fell from his pocket.

Snake Hips picked it up, ran.

Texas Shuffle, who sat in with the Band last night,

this morning, dropped his fiddlecases

in the ocean and did the Lindy all the way

to the dinning room

I got off at Freak Lips Harbor.

Boy from Springfield said he’d talk like Satch for me

for a dime. I gave him a Bird,

and an introductory note to the Duke of Ellington.

Found my way to the Ida B. Wells Youth Center.

Girl named Ella said I’d have to wait to see Mister B.

Everybody else was out to lunch.

In the waiting room got into a conversation

with a horse thief from Jump Back. Told him:

My past life is a Saturday morning cartoon.

In it, I’m jumping Rock Island freight cars, skipping

Peoria with Leadbelly; running from the man,

trying to prove my innocence. Accused of being

too complex to handle.

Meanwhile, Zoot, Sassy, Getz, Prez, Cootie, everybody

gives me a hand.

Finally, Mister B comes in. Asks about my future.

All I can say is, I can do the Cow Cow Boogie

on the ocean and hold my own in a chase chorus

among the best!

Fine, says Mister B, you start seven in the morning!

CLARENCE MAJOR

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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

Jazz Poems

FOR SIDNEY BECHET

That note you hold, narrowing and rising, shakes

Like New Orleans reflected on the water,

And in all ears appropriate falsehood wakes,

Building for some a legendary Quarter

Of balconies, flower-baskets and quadrilles,

Everyone making love and going shares–

Oh, play that thing! Mute glorious Storyvilles

Others may license, grouping round their chairs

Sporting-house girls like circus tigers (priced

Far above rubies) to pretend their fads,

While scholars manqués nod around unnoticed

Wrapped up in personnels like old plaids.

On me your voice falls as they say love should,

Like an enormous yes. My Crescent City

Is where your speech alone is understood,

And greeted as the natural noise of good,

Scattering long-haired grief and scored pity.

PHILIP LARKIN

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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