Jazz Poems

THE JOURNEY

Miles was waiting on the dock,

his trumpet in a paper bag.

Lady was cold—

wind lashed the gardenias

I stole for her hair.

We were shabby, the three of us.

No one was coming so I started to row.

It was hard going—

stagnant, meandering…

The city moaned and smoldered.

Tin cans on the banks like shackles…

To be discovered, in the open…

But Miles took out his horn

and played.

Lady sang.

A slow traditional blues.

The current caught us— 

horn, voice, oar stroking water…

I don’t know how long we floated—

our craft so full of music, 

the night so full of stars.

When I awoke we were entering an ocean, 

sun low on water 

warm as a throat, 

gold as a trumpet.

We wept.

Then soared in a spiritual.

Never have I been so happy.

LAWSON FUSAO INADA 

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Jazz Poems

PREZ IN PARIS, 1959

By 1959 he’d moved to ParisPrez wouldn’t eat. Sweet alcohol harassedhis system. Cooled, the jazz “To Be or Not to Be” –withdrawn, a whisper–seemed a jot.

Once there’s been ways to get bak at the world;Ex-G.I. Prez had tried and tired. He hurledhimself now–hearsay, smoky horn–down-stage.“Well, Lady Gay Paree, it’s been a dog’s age.”

he might’ve said. Or “Ivy Divey! Wrong!The way that channel swims–toocold. “This song–the lyric’s weak. We’ll drown. No eyes, my man.No, let’s don’t take it from no top. The band 

can skip it.” Prez. Monsieur le Président, who played us what can work, and what just won’t.

Al Young  | May 31, 1939 – April 17, 2021

Poet, novelist, essayist, screenwriter, and professor. He was named Poet Laureate of California by Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger from 2005 to 2008.

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Jazz Poems

STRANGE FRUIT

Blood on the leaves and blood at the root

Black body swinging in the Southern breeze

Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees

Pastoral scene of the gallant South

The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth

Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh

And the sudden smell of burning flesh

Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck,

For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck

For the sun to rot, for a tree to drop,

Here is a strange and bitter crop.

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

JELLY WROTE

jelly wrote, 

                      you should be walking on four legs

                      but now you’re walking on two,

                      you know you come directly from the

                                    animal famulee

& you do. but dr jive

the winding boy, whose hands only work

was music & pushing

“certain ignorant light skin women” to the corner

was never animal

was never beast in storeyville, refining

a touch for ivory on pool green

with the finest of whorehouse ragtime; use even

for the “darker niggers music. rough,” jelly wrote

“but they loved it in the tenderloin.”

o the tall & chancey, the ladies’

fancy, the finest boy for miles around,

“your salty dog,” but with diamond incisors,

shooting the agate under a stetson sky

his st louis flats winked into

aaah, mr jelly

A.B. Spellman 

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

your 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 we 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.

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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