Jazz Poems

CREPUSCULE WITH NELLIE

For Ira

Monk at the Five Spot

late one night.

Ruby my Dear, Epistrophy.

The place nearly empty

Because of the cold spell.

One beautiful black transvestite

alone up front,

Sipping his drink demurely.

The music Pythagorean,

one note at a time

Connecting the heavenly spheres,

While I leaned against the bar

surveying the premises

Through cigarette smoke.

All of a sudden, a clear sense

of a memorable occasion…

The joy of it, the delicious melancholy…

This very strange manbent over the piano

shaking his head, humming…

Misterioso.

Then it was all over, thank you!

Chairs being stacked up on tables,

their legs up.

The prospect of the freeze outside,

the long walk home,

Making one procrastinatory.

Who said Americans don’t have history,

only endless nostalgia?

And where the hell was Nellie?

CHARLES (DUŠAN) SIMIĆ

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

FOR ART BLAKEY AND  THE JAZZ MESSENGERS For the sound we revere we dub you art as continuum as spirit as sound of depth here to stay In my young years I heard you bopping and weaving messages I  could only walk to where wood mates with skin I would have dubbed you godhead but your sound rolled and pealed I am the drumhead even though Blue Note don’t care nothing bout nothing but profit How you sound is who you are where your ear leans moaning or bopping from the amen corner of chicken and dumpling memories and places In my young years I would have dubbed you something strange as god of opiate heaven of brutal contact of bible and rifle memories But the drumhead rolled my name: How you sound is who you are like drumsound backing back to root roosting at the meeting place the time that has always been here Even here where wood mates with skin on wax to make memory, to place us even in this hideous place pp-ppounding pp-ppounding the ss-ssounds of who we are even in this place of strange and brutal design KEORAPETSE KGOSITSILE | 1938~2018

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,

you 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 wwe 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.

JEAN VALENTINE

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

MAY 12

From The Daily Mirror

A book could be written on the moment swing turned into bop the moment Lester Young, Roy Eldridge, and Teddy Wilson gave way to Bird, Dizzy, Miles, Bud and Monk in fact it would be a great movie at least the sound track would be “beyond category” as Duke Ellington would have put it the life of a jazz musician (about which I know so little) is the life for me I felt on the afternoon Jamie and I visited his father who sat at the piano and talked and played I was tongue-tied and wanted him to play a song as if Helen Merrill were there and her voice and his fingers were about to have an intimate talk

DAVID LEHMAN | 1948

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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JAZZ POEMS

ONE O’CLOCK JUMP

Still tingling with Basie’s hard cooking

between two sets I stood at the bar

when the man next to me ordered

scotch and milk. I looked to see who had

this stray taste and almost swooned

when I saw it was the master.

Basie knocked his shot back,

then, when he saw me gaping,

raised his milk to my peachy face

and rolled out his complete smile

before going off with friends

to leave me in that state of grace.

A year later I was renting rooms

from a woman named Tillie who wanted

no jazz in her dank, unhallowed house.

Objecting even to lowest volume of solo piano,

she’d puff upstairs to bang on my door.

I grew opaque, unwell,

slouched to other apartments,

begging to play records.

Duked, dePrezed, and unBased, l

onging for Billy, Monk, Brute, or Zoot,

I lived in silence through

that whole lost summer.

Still, aware of divine flavor, I bided time

and waited for the day of reckoning.

My last night in Tillie’s godless house,

late—when I knew she was hard asleep—

I gave her the full One O’Clock Jump,

having Basie ride his horse of perfect time

like an avenging angel over top volume,

hoisting his scotch and milk as he galloped

into Tillie’s ear, headlong down her throat

to roar all night in her sulphurous organs.

PAUL ZIMMER | 1934

American Society of Journalists and Authors Open Book Award

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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