POEM: blackbird on the corner

Posted 3 May, 2012 in Jazz, Music, My poems, New York City, Poetry

Click the image for a larger version.

POEM: skreeks & skronks (annotated version)

Posted 10 April, 2012 in Jazz, Music, My poems, NaPoWriMo, Poetry

I posted this poem earlier today. It was a free-writing exercise — exactly what came into my head, no editing after the fact. As I was explaining the references to two friends, I thought it might be fun to make an annotated version of the poem for everyone to read. I’ve numbered the lines and put the notes at the bottom. Enjoy!

/ / /

skreeks & skronks

plectrum scraping against metal wire [1]
string theory: indeterminate length [2]
you take two bodies & mash their atoms [3]
collisions yielding energy / heat / light [4]
what if I gave you this & you kept it? [5]
one note in the bass arpeggio above [6]
we assimilate Italian terms because we [7]
have no adequate words to describe this [8]
aural multiverse through which we’re flying [9]
add drums bring to boil reduce heat simmer [10]
there are saved onions in the fridge [11]
they’ve accepted Jesus into their cores [12]
peeled away the layers of freewill [13]
acknowledged their eventual dicing in service [14]
of the Lord & his supper table [15]
bring me the head of Robert Fripp & [16]
five white people who can clap on two & four [17]
then lay me down in sheets of sound [18]
John Coltrane has my blood on his hands [19]
from when he slipped & I caught him [20]
he hovers above the bed in judgment [21]
waiting for his ascension when he’ll be [22]
seated at the right hand of Earl “Fatha” Hines [23]
“if all you can play are squeaks & honks [24]
then you’re not really free” [25]

10 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

NOTES (not all the lines have notes)

[1] This is a reference to some sounds coming from Terrence McManus’s Brooklyn EP, which I was listening to while writing this poem.

[2] A reference to this video.

[3] A revision of a line from the Paul Simon song “Hearts & Bones” combined with the science-y bit from the previous line.

[4] The previous line made me think of the Large Hadron Collider.

[6] Another description of the music from note [1].

[7] e.g. “arpeggio”

[10] The record changed to a duo album with Terrence McManus and drummer Gerry Hemingway called Below The Surface Of.

[11] Factually true, then “saved” becomes a play on words for converting to Christianity.

[16-17] These two lines came to me months ago but I never used them. They popped into my head while I was writing this poem. Robert Fripp is the founder and leader of the band King Crimson, among other things. The “two & four” thing is a classic jibe at white folks who are stereotypically more likely to clap on the first and third beats of a measure. If memory serves, Fripp once edited some performances in the studio to make drummer Bill Bruford’s playing sound more in 4/4 time than Bruford had played it.

[18] A revision of a line from Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” (“lay me down in sheets of linen”). When I got to “sheets of” I thought of John Coltrane’s “sheets of sound”.

[19-20] A mounted poster of Coltrane is hanging in my bedroom. When I hung it, I dropped it and cut my hand while catching it. I bled on the poster and have never cleaned off the blood stain.

[22] Ascension is an album by John Coltrane.

[23] “seated at the right hand of the father” is a line from the Apostles’ Creed, which I can still stay from memory despite not having been to a Catholic mass since the early 80s. Earl “Fatha” Hines was a jazz pianist.

[24-25] This is a paraphrase of something said by drummer Barry Altschul when I interviewed him earlier this year.

POEM: skreeks & skronks

Posted 10 April, 2012 in Jazz, Music, My poems, NaPoWriMo, Poetry

skreeks & skronks

plectrum scraping against metal wire
string theory: indeterminate length
you take two bodies & mash their atoms
collisions yielding energy / heat / light
what if I gave you this & you kept it?
one note in the bass arpeggio above
we assimilate Italian terms because we
have no adequate words to describe this
aural multiverse through which we’re flying
add drums bring to boil reduce heat simmer
there are saved onions in the fridge
they’ve accepted Jesus into their cores
peeled away the layers of freewill
acknowledged their eventual dicing in service
of the Lord & his supper table
bring me the head of Robert Fripp &
five white people who can clap on two & four
then lay me down in sheets of sound
John Coltrane has my blood on his hands
from when he slipped & I caught him
he hovers above the bed in judgment
waiting for his ascension when he’ll be
seated at the right hand of Earl “Fatha” Hines
“if all you can play are squeaks & honks
then you’re not really free”

10 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April. This poem is a piece of free writing, written while listening to Brooklyn EP by Terrence McManus and Below The Surface Of by Terrence McManus and Gerry Hemingway.

POEM: like

Posted 2 April, 2012 in Music, My poems, Poetry

like

garlic and Earth Balance over warm rotini

the key changes in Stevie’s “Summer Soft”

flowers on the window sill (our window sill)

Roland Orzabal’s guitar solo on
            ”Everybody Wants To Rule The World”

miso ramen with white pepper and sprouts
            eaten at the bar where everyone is sweating

sembe and a cold bottle of green tea

Levon Helm’s drum crescendo on the final verse of
            ”The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”
            from The Last Waltz

when my kids get tired at night and forget
            they’re too cool to hug me

the chorus of “Go All The Way” by the Raspberries
            heard while watching someone stuff artisanal Twinkies
            in a Park Slope bakery (I know, I know)

in bed, playing Chrono Trigger, one of us for the first time
            and the other, well, not for the first time

at the table (taken from 24 Packard) talking politics
            while Paul Robeson sings “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”

sitting on the cushion with the rain falling outside
            and the Japanese temple incense filling the room

when you said, “I want you in my life for a very long time”

2 April 2012
Brooklyn NY

/ / /

It’s National Poetry Writing Month! A poem a day, each day in April.

POEM: Myra’s bubble

Posted 25 February, 2012 in Jazz, Music, My poems, Poetry

From Myra Melford's Snowy Egret at The Jazz Gallery

Myra’s bubble

like squeezing a bubble
from the top of a shampoo bottle
            slowly
                        slowly
                                    slowly

draw the fingers in toward the palm
            gently
                        gently
                                    gently

waiting for the inevitable burst
air through the dream-thin membrane

it will never happen
            exactly
                        this way
                                    again

it can’t be accurately described
or recreated / can’t be
passed down the line from
mother            to            child

there is no line

there is only this NOW
the only-ever-all bubble
the one that will
            always
                        get away

/ / /

I wrote this poem tonight while listening to (and watching) Myra Melford’s new project, “Snowy Egret,” at The Jazz Gallery in New York. The photo above is of the dancer, Oguri, in front of the band. The music and dance were stunning. I felt lucky to be there and tried to capture the sense of tension and impermanence of the performance in this poem.

POEM: song for Oscar

Posted 21 February, 2012 in Jazz, Music, My poems, Poetry

song for Oscar

a canary-yellow miner
rummages beneath the Rubin
for the molten core of music

light jumps from the stage
to the keys of his clarinet
then out into the crowd

like the fierce glare
of a headlamp
worn to stave off the dark

it’s a long trip from Tucson
to 17th Street, with a lot of
empty space along the way

miles of desert air filling
his lungs, breathed out
into the room like the

oncoming night that spills
into the bowl of mountains
around The Old Pueblo

there were a million reasons to stay
to become just another uncle
who unpacks his horn at the holidays

to the groans of the young ones
“just sit there while Uncle Oscar
plays a song” she would have said

but in a town with a dried-up river
he learned to swim against the stream
all the way to this refuge on the estuary

now on a Saturday night at Barbes
you’ll hear the brass banda smashing
through the walls, forcing

the dancers to take to the floor
spinning, laughing, weeping
with memory and ecstasy

beneath the black cowboy hat
is a brain that can pick its way
between the cracked stones

at the end of the sidewalk
where the music comes
in splinters and shards

/ / /

I’m a big fan of saxophonist and clarinetist Oscar Noriega and have wanted to write a poem about him for a while. When I learned that he’s from Tucson, a place very dear to me, this is what resulted. I’ve seen him in a number of contexts. The images in this poem come primarily from a recent show with Tim Berne and also from his band Banda Sinaloense de los Muertos.

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