Jazz Poems

SHAKING HANDS WITH MONGO

for Mongo Santamaria

Mongo’s open hands

huge soft palms

that drop the hard seeds

of conga with a thump,

shaken by the god of hurricanes,

raining mambo coconuts

that do not split

even when they hit the sidewalk,

rumbling incantation

in the astonished dancehall

of a city in winter,

sweating in a rush of A-train night,

so that Chano Pozo,

maestro of the drumming Yoruba heart,

howling Manteca in a distant coro,

hears Mongo and yes,

begins to bop

a slow knocking bolero of forgiveness

to the nameless man

who shot his life away

for a bag of tecata

in a Harlem bar

forty years ago

Martín Espada | 1957

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

FOR ERIC DOLPHY

on flute

spinning    spinning    spinning

love

thru / out

the universe

i

know

exactly

whut chew mean

man

you like

titter

my sister

who never expressed LOVE

in words (like the white folks always       d

she would sit in the corner                      o

and cry                                                   i

everytime                                               n

I                                                             g

got a whuppin

Etheridge Knight

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

DARK TO THEMSELVES

Invent, experiment–Jazz

that doesn’t swing but dances tight

as a drumhead so taut it might

explode: whole notes cleaved

into sixteenths with a single blow, melodies

recoded as arpeggios. Say, what he calls this 

composition? Tiny fingers divining

an architectonic flow, forearms jacking

cracks in the keyboard as wire

and wood cry out in agony:

duo follow, ringing changes.

Liberate the dissonance without killing

the blues. Unit structure cut it.

They don’t teach this joint in the Conservatory.

Varèse via Jelly Roll, serial Waller,

harmony ribbons in a Möbius strip. Recut it.

Enough is enough. Brother can’t play

here again, the customers ain’t paying.

Even Miles was giggling in the darkness.

It’s always a bitch to be out

front. He summons the bassline

of his thoughts in the shadows, tracing a new theory

of silence. Don’t worry about the next gig.

Their ears are still learning.

JOHN KEENE 

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

SNOW

I cannot help noticing how this slow Monk sol

seems to go somehow with the snow that is coming down this morning

how the notes and the space accompany

its easy falling on the geometry of the ground, on the flagstone path, the slanted roof, and the angles of the split rail fence

as if he had imagined a winter scene

as he sat at the piano late one night at the Five Spot playing “Ruby My Dear”.

Then again, it’s the kind of song

that would go easily with rain or a tumult of leaves,

and for that matter it’s a snow

that could attend an adagio for strings, the best of the Ronettes, or George Thorogood and the Destroyers.

It falls so indifferently

into the spacious white parlor of the world, if I were sitting here reading in silence, reading the morning paper or reading Being and Nothingness not even letting the spoon touch the inside of the cup, I have a feeling the snow would ever go perfectly with that. BILLY COLLINS  

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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Jazz Poems

FILLING THE GAP When Bird died, I didn’t mind I had things to do— polish some shoes, practive a high school cha-cha-cha. I didn’t even know Clifford was dead: I must have been lobbing an oblong ball beside the gymnasium. I saw the Lady right before she died— dried, brittle as last year’s gardenia. I let her scratch an autograph. But not Pres. Too bugged to boo, I left as Basie’s brass booted him off the stand in a sick reunion— tottering , saxophone dragging himmlike a stage-hook. When I read Dr. Williams’ poem, “Stormy,” I wrote a letter of love and praise and didn’t mail it. After he died, it burned my desk like a delinquent prescription… I don’t like to mourn the dead: what didn’t, never will. And I sometimes feel foolish staying up late, trying to squeeze some life out of books and records, filling the gaps between words and notes. That is why I rush into our room to find you mumbling and moaning in your incoherent performance. That is why I rub and squeeze you and love to hear your live, alterable cry against my breast Lawson Fusao Inada

from Jazz Poems ~ Selected and Edited by Kevin Young

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