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Category: Jazz

POEM: skreeks & skronks (annotated version)

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.

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POEM: skreeks & skronks

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.

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POEM: Myra’s bubble

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.

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POEM: song for Oscar

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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POEM: original black

original black

three men in white
investigating black
all-caps BLACK

digging at:
        the roots
        the rhythms
        the rhymes

blood samples
lined up against
blue-black bodies
strands of DNA
leading to Pryor’s
“original black”

Andrew Lamb
(“The Black Lamb”)
lives behind this poem
his saxophone weeps
for New Orleans
salty tears running
down black cheeks
saliva on cane reed
sweat on his brow

there were two black
kids in my high school
out of twelve hundred
one Cambodian girl, too
(“a boat person”)

“the thing I like about you”
John said to me
“is that you talk
to black people
just like other people”

just.
like.
other.
people.

/ / /

This poem was inspired by two things: going to see Vernon Reid’s Artificial Afrika at Dixon Place last night and then listening to Andrew Lamb’s brilliant album New Orleans Suite again this morning.

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POEM: sing me a Haitian song


Photo source

sing me a Haitian song

sing mules and horses on the mountainside
          a calabash of river water to wash in
          another to drink

sing to me of the climbing tree
          four uncles on the summit waiting
          for the return of the prodigal nephew

sing me an African rhythm
          drawn from the source of the one true river
          that became the ocean and surrounded the islands

sing to me of proud women with straight backs
          burdens atop their heads as they appear and disappear
          on the peaks and in the valleys

sing me a policeman’s song
          a wide-brimmed hat his badge of office
          his horse weary from climbing

sing me a Brooklyn dance, no music but the drum
          to remake their lost island in an old meeting hall
          filled with vegetable stew and mountain stories

sing me sixty-odd years since then
          the boy once mesmerized by the drummer
          returning to old ground as a man of the drum himself

/ / /

This poem is inspired by an interview I conducted with drummer Andrew Cyrille. You can hear the interview here.

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POEM: poems for foolish hearts

Listen to this poem using the player above.

/ / /

Tonight I went to see Foolish Hearts, a duo with Peter Eldridge and Matt Aronoff. They were amazing — a master class in musicianship at the highest level paired with an incredibly emotional connection with the crowd. As I often do, I wrote a poem while listening to them. This is an acrostic poem. Not a format I often use, but it seemed like a fun place to start. I took several photos tonight, too, which you can see here.

From

poems for foolish hearts

1.

picture me
even now, waiting
till you arrive
even now
remembering the last time
even now
looking toward the back of the room
darting ever-so-casual glances
ready to wave you over
I have to confess I
didn’t expect to be here alone
giving myself over to the music
even now

2.

meet me
at Cornelia Street
tonight, wearing
that dress
ask me to
remember
or kiss me
now before
one of us
falls to earth
from this narrow ledge

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POEM: the king’s clothes

Listen to this poem using the player above.

I saw Mark Turner play at Jazz Standard a few months back and wrote a poem while watching him. The poem was longer than this version and I kept trying to figure out what else to add. Finally, after being away from it for a while, I not only decided not to add anything, I decided to take things away. Here’s the result.

/ / /

the king’s clothes

corduroy-suited tenorman
plays non-clichéd blues
in clichéd suede shoes

on his furrowed brow
the image of a lotus

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POEM: a cappella

Listen to this poem using the player above.

I went to see Amy Cervini sing at the 55 Bar in New York tonight. She was joined by many guests, including vocalist Nicky Shrire. I got the idea for this poem from their duet performance.

/ / /

a cappella
(for Nicky Shrire & Amy Cervini)

she waits at the bar
till her name is called

then sings her way to the edge
of the cliff / kept from falling

by the sound of four hands clapping
two voices wrapped like vines

a cappella — from the Italian meaning
“in the manner of the church”

surely this is prayer / sent up
through the tin ceiling

to where she imagines
her ancestors to be

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POEM: danger

I wrote this poem tonight while listening to pianist Matt Mitchell and drummer Ches Smith at Korzo.

From Matt Mitchell & Ches Smith at Korzo – 6 Sept 2011

danger

you were dangerous and angry
red wrists and flashes of light
in the Hungarian bar
with $5 goulash

After careful study, I’ve decided that my life
needs an extra day and a cloning device
or a world without rock stars
and foreign bars

the reds are oppressive
walls, neon Czechvar sign
you
the red star in the center of the universe

I know this sounds like a love poem
but it isn’t
I don’t write those anymore
I’ve lost the knack

instead I take black-and-white photos
try to preserve these red nights
with the ink from a cheap Bic
and the rush of blood in my veins

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POEM: soil

I went tonight to hear Petr Cancura‘s Lonesome Quartet with Petr on banjo and saxophone, Kirk Knuffke on cornet, Garth Stevenson on bass and Tyshawn Sorey on drums. I was very impressed by the music. Petr told a story about a trip he made that inspired this poem. I took a few bit of his story, changed the details and imagined the rest.

From Petr Cancura's Lonesome Quartet at Cornelia Street Cafe (7/7/11)

soil

there’s a farm outside Memphis where a hog is roasting / and the old brass-band leader’s kinfolk will welcome you to the party / even if your accent don’t quite fit

this is soil country / rooted / each one can trace from the branch all the way into the earth / you can’t play brass band music if your feet don’t touch the ground

in the old farmhouse is an even older hutch / in a cabinet in the hutch is an ancient Bible / full of blood and memory / the names are a hymn / a holy call into hallowed ground

out by the roasting pit / they’ve cleared a space for dancing / little girls standing on their fathers’ feet / young boys shoved into the arms of cousins / “come now, child, dance with her – it won’t kill you”

the old brass-band leader is right where he’s been all these years / waving his mail-order baton / cajoling music from a bunch of coots as old / as the dirt they’re standing on

later / when the kids are asleep and the band is done / the oldest of the men takes out a banjo / plucks the stars alight

there’s a farm outside Memphis / where all are welcome / this is soil country / rooted

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POEM: The Buddha of New Orleans (for Eli Asher)

This poem is dedicated to the trumpeter Eli Asher. In addition to being an inspiring musician, he came up with the phrase “Gumbo Sutra,” which inspired the rest of the poem. I started this weeks ago and finally finished it tonight. Thanks, Eli.

From Buddha In The Modern World (Ongoing Photo Essay)

The Buddha of New Orleans
(for Eli Asher)

The Buddha of New Orleans
plays trumpet on the weekends
with three guys from the Legion hall
and two oyster house waiters
who moonlight as dancers.

Clap hands, here comes Gautama!
He’s lost weight and looks more like
the Tibetan image than the Chinese version.
He swings like a gate, too.
(gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate)

He plays with time, shifting the beat.
No two members of the band
are ever in exactly the same place.
The dancers ignore them, whirling
around the stage in time to the low buzz
from the PA system.

After the gig, the band goes back to his house.
He cooks for them,
recites the Gumbo Sutra.
This has been going on for years
and they still never understand a word he says.

But something about
the way he says it
— so calm, so caring —
makes them smile over their bowls
of rice and beans.

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POEM: new york basement blues

I went to Jazz Standard tonight to see Ben Allison’s band with Michael Blake, Steve Cardenas, Jason Lindner and Rudy Royston. I wrote this poem during the show, inspired by things in the club, phrases I heard, song titles and my owned fevered imagination. The first quotation in the poem was said from the stage by Michael Blake.

Photo by jazzmix.org

new york basement blues

1.
grab your jazz hat
meet me in the bent-note basement
Jackie’s back of the bar
sloshing the occasional beer
on the tongue-colored tile

the Dutch couple near the stage
look trapped, unsure
told, perhaps, that this would be

something else

(close your eyes, dear,
and think of Holland)

2.
there was a monk on San Juan Hill
who could tell your fortune
in two bars of three

he could stop on a dime:
and give you nonsense and change

“you and me baby” he’d say
“let’s start our own country
and nobody will come”

(he had a sign in his window / it said:
MY BOSS IS KAREN CARPENTER)

3.
later, as the sleepy-eyed theater boys
slowly regain their senses
a sidewalk prophet in plaid and denim
hands us a poem by William Blake

on which he’s drawn a caricature
of Barrack Obama
hugging Margaret Thatcher

“April is the cruelest month” he says
“except for February, which I’ve never liked”

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POEM: fireflies

This poem was inspired by seeing vocalist Fay Victor and bassist Dominic Lash perform together tonight at the Evolving Music Series. Here’s an album of photos from the event, which also included Theo Bleckmann & Jay Clayton, Charles Gayle’s Forgiveness and more.

fireflies

my mouth is full of fireflies
a spring night jack-o-lantern
with glowing cheeks
my honeyed ears hum
with the soft songs of bees
and their dancing maps
there are dogs and bears and tragic lovers
haunting the April sky
a night woodsman thunks his axe into a stump
I hear a grumbling ostinato in the trees
the song of an unseen singer
calling me homeward toward my little room
filled floor to ceiling with jars of fireflies
damp with saliva

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