Jazz Poems

BRINGING JAZZ (Odd-numbered lines spoken slowly even -numbered ones quickly) Last night I had an oboe dream— Whistlers in a box-car madness bringing jazz Their faces stormed in a hobo-gleam, Blinding all the grinding wheels and singing jazz. The box-car gloried in its dirt— Just as hallelujah made of chanting mud. And one old bum opened up his shirt Showing wounds of music in his ranting blood. The hoboes sang with scorching notes Burning up the pain into a gale of jazz, While sadness poured in their shaking throats, Like a molten bugle in a wail of jazz. The rails were jails for death and rust— Holding up the cruel, dark blue speed of jazz— But life still stirred underneath their crust— Little hums and clicks brought by the need of jazz. Within the box-car, hoboes leaped— Fatalists and pagan in a carefree trap— And when they sang of hungers reaped, Bread and wine of sound came from a dark god’s lap! The hoboes made a fox-trot blaze— Scorning women, gliding in a sexless dance— And on their coats of ragged baize- Ghosts of orchids fluttered down and looked askance! The jungle sent a moan of sound—- Made it blend into an oathof northern grime. A music came, flaring and profound, Flayed with rapture half repelled and half sublime. And then I saw the dream’s dark spring—- Hurricanes of jazz born from the underworld. “Saint Louie Gal with a diamond ring” Danced with mobs of hoboes while the thunder swirled! MAXWELL BODENHEIM 

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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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

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Jazz Poems

OL’ BUNK’S BAND These are men! the gaunt, unfore- sold, the vocal, blatant, Stand up, stand up! the slap of a bass-string Pick, ping! The horn, the hollow horn long drawn out, a hound deep tone— Choking, choking! while the treble reed races–alone, ripples, screams slow to fast— to second to first! These are men! Drum, drum, drum, drum, drum drum, drum! the ancient cry, escaping crapulence eats through transcendent—torn, tears, term town, tense, turns and back off whole, leaps up, stomps down, rips through! These are men beneath whose force the melody limps— to proclaim—Run and lie down, in slow measures, to rest and not never need no more! These are men! Men!

WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

GOD PITY ME WHOM (GOD DISTINCTLY HAS)

God pity me whom (god distinctly has)

that weightless svelte drifting sexual feather

of your shall i say body’s?follows

truly through a dribbling moan of jazz

whose arched occasional steep youth swallows

curvingly the keenness of my hips;

or, your first twitch of crisp boy flesh dips

my height in a firm fragile stinging weather,

(breathless with sharp necessary lips)kid

female cracksman of the nifty,ruffian-rogue,

laughing body with wise breasts half-grown,

lisping flesh quick to thread the fattish drone

of I Want a Doll,

wispish-agile feet with slid

steps parting the tousle of saxophonic brogue.

E. E. CUMMINGS

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

THE JAZZ OF THIS HOTEL

Why do I curse the jazz of this hotel?

I like the slower tom-toms of the sea;

I like the slower tom-toms of the thunder;

I like the more deliberate dancing knee

Of outdoor love, of outdoor talk and wonder.

I like the slower, deeper violin

Of the wind across the fields of Indian corn;

I like the far more ancient violincello

Of whittling loafers telling stories mellow

Down at the village grocery in the sun;

I like the slower bells that ring for church

Across the Indiana landscape old.

Therefore I curse the jazz of this hotel

That seems so hot, but is so hard and cold

VACHEL LINDSAY

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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