Jazz Poems

TOUCHING THE PAST Uptown New Orleans, 1940, And here was a man of the right color, Old enough to have been there, Who maybe heard. So I enquired From the old man doing his yard work “Ever hear Buddy Bolden play?” “Ah me,” he said, stopping his work, “Yes. But you mean King, King Bolden. That’s what we called him then.” He leaned on his rake a while, resting. “Used to play in Algiers, played so loud We could hear him clear ‘cross the river.” He seemed listening. “King Bolden, now, There was a man could play.” We stood there, Thinking about it, smiling. ROBERT SARGENT

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

WE REAL COOL THE POOL PLAYERS SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon. GWENDOLYN BROOKS

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

JAZZ BAND Play that thing, you jazz mad fools! Boil a skyscraper with a jungle Dish it to ‘em sweet and hot— Ahhhhhhhhh Rip it open then, sew it up, jazz band! Thick bass notesfrom a moon faced drum Saxophones moan, banjo strings hum High thin notes from the cornet’s throat Trombone snorting, bass horn snorting Short tan notes from the piano And the short tan notes from the piano Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Chopin gone screwy, Wagner with the blues Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Got a date with Satan—ain’t no time to lose Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Strut it in Harlem, let Fifth Avenue shake it slow Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Ain’t goin’ to heaven nohow— crowd up there’s too slow Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Plink, plank, plunk a plunk Plunk Do that thing, jazz band! Whip it to a jelly Sock it, rock it; heat it, beat it; then fling it at ‘em Let the jazz stuff fall like hail on king and truck driver queen and laundress, lord and laborer, banker and bum Let it fall in London, Moscow, Paris, Hongkong, Cairo, Buenos Aires, Chicago, Sidney Let it rub hard thighs, let it be molten fire in the veins of dancers Make ‘em shout a crazy jargon of hot hosannas to a Fiddle-faced jazz god Send Dios, Jehovah, Gott, Allah, Buddha past in a high stepping cake walk Do that thing, jazz band! Your music’s been drinking hard liquor Got shanghied and it’s fightin’ mad Stripped to the waist feedin’ ocean liner bellies Big burly bibulous brute Poet hands and bone crusher shoulders Black sheep or white? Hey, Hey! Pick it, papa Twee twa twee twa twa Step on it, black boy Do re mi fa so la ti do Boomp boomp Play that thing, you jazz mad fools!

FRANK MARSHALL DAVIS

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

HOMAGE TO LITERATURE When you imagine trumpet-faced musicians blowing again inimitable jazz no art can accuse nor canonadings hurt, or coming out of your dreams of dirigibles again see the unreasonable cripple throwing his crutch headlong as the headlights streak down the torn street, as the three hammerers go One, Two, Three on the stake, triphammer poundings and not a sign of new worlds to still the heart; then stare into the lake of sunset as it runs boiling, over the west past all control rolling and swamps the heartbeat and repeats sea beyond sea after unbearable suns; think poems fixed this landscape: Blake, Donne, Keats. MURIEL RUKEYSER

from Jazz Poems | Selected and edited by Kevin Young

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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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