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Category: Poetry

POEM: Gene Ludwig

Published 24 October 2009 by Jason Crane

GeneatClefClub
Photo by Ben Johnson, Sr.

I saw organist Gene Ludwig in concert earlier tonight, and wrote these three pieces while watching the show. If you’d like to know more about Gene, listen to my interview with him on The Jazz Session.

Gene Ludwig

1.

Gone deep inside, he slides
effortlessly across the organ keys,
never losing the sense of weightlessness
every earthbound mortal
longs for.
Unlike most, he isn’t held
down by gravity, not forced to
wear the chains of step-by-step,
inch-by-inch. Instead, he
gently leaves the earth, smiling.

2.

Perhaps he’s the local mortician,
skin made alabaster through
affinity with those he serves;
or an accountant, toiling away
until life’s energy winds down
like the gold watch they’ll give him;
he could be any one of a hundred
buttoned-up Rotarians in grey flannel suits,
friends with the mayor or with
the chief of police.
Then he sits down at the organ, and
joy springs from those ivory fingers.
He strips off the grey shell,
revealing the light at his core.
That light is the only thing
that reaches us faster
than his sound.

3.

Grabbing two handfuls of
electricity, he
naturally believes that life is beautiful, that
everyone has ready access to this
level of presence, this certain
understanding of the melody.
Doubtless, they all
would trade places
if they could, exchanging
Gene’s grace for their own.

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POEM: Bernard Orrin Joseph Flanders, 1912-2009

Published 18 October 2009 by Jason Crane

grandpa

A poem for my grandfather. The first letter of each line spells out his name.

Bernard Orrin Joseph Flanders, 1912-2009

Bent over one of many art projects, he is perhaps
eyeing a stitch in a pattern, or
running his hands across the smooth surface of a
nascent scrimshaw.
All of our houses have some
reminder of his artistry,
done on commission or by surprise,
or given over after a move to a smaller apartment.
Rarer pieces, such as the carved nameplates
resting from nails set
in doors of his own making, will
never pass from their owners’ hands, nor will our
joy dim each time we catch sight of
our names carved in the
soft wood.
Each of us holds onto whatever small treasures we’ve
placed so carefully in the bank of our memory.
He never seemed to understand the weight of his gift,
feigned embarrassment at our gushing praise,
lowered his eyes
and said, “It’s
nothing,
don’t mention it.”
Each of holds onto whatever small treasurers we’ve
received from him, ever thankful that his love has been captured in
stitching or ivory or wood.

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POEM: Lillian Dupree & The Ballad of Frenchman Street

Published 27 September 2009 by Jason Crane

UPDATE: This poem was published in the Winter-Spring 2010 issue of Blue Collar Review. You can get your copy at partisanpress.org.

Photograph by Richard Oliver

Lillian Dupree & The Ballad of Frenchman Street

It always starts with the rain and wind kicking up.
Clouds circle like vultures far out over the ocean,
higher than the sailors could see them,
if they were looking.

In a bar near Charity Hospital,
the TV shows the slowly spiraling storm,
but the sound is off and no one pays much mind
as the weatherman says “this is the one.”

In old westerns, the Indian lies prostrate,
ear to the ground, listening for the approaching hoof beats
of a warring tribe. If Donald Harrison, Jr., were to put
his ear to the ground, he would hear the low rumble of the future.

A factory in Texas made the guitar
that will be strummed when the horn should be sounded.
The strings are tight across the bridge,
like the cars and the buses and those on foot will be later.

Back on Frenchman Street, Lillian Dupree gets up from the bar
and starts for home, noticing that the breeze is strong.
She’s still in her scrubs after a long night taking readings,
listening for pulses and watching the moving lines.

This is the old part of the city.
The part the French built when it seemed like they’d be here forever.
As time and the storm proved, no one
is guaranteed this plot of land at the edge of the gulf.

First the French, then the Spanish, then the French again;
they all tried to conquer what could not be tamed;
tried to civilize the wild Caribbean soul of a city that was
never really part of this country, and yet is at the heart of it.

Perhaps it is that very separation, that very wildness,
that will make it easy for many to look away
as the bowl fills with unholy water like a rusty pot
left to decay in the tall grasses out behind the house.

Lillian Dupree is tired.
Tired of walking these same streets every night.
She wishes she could drive, or that she could afford to live
far enough away to commute.

She was born at this very hospital, born to a mother
who was born to a mother
who was born to a mother
who was born a slave.

Did you know that the last ever shipment of African slaves
from the continent came to this very city?
By that time, all the Africans you could ever want
were being mass produced in Virginia.

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BOOK REVIEW: Dock Ellis in the Country of Baseball

Published 14 June 2009 by Jason Crane

Donald Hall, one of the country’s great poets, writes with passion about Dock Ellis, one of baseball’s most colorful figures. If all you know about Dock Ellis is that he once pitched a no-hitter on LSD, then you need to read this book and learn the other 90% of his story. And if you, like me, have never heard of Dock Ellis at all, Hall’s engrossing account will acquaint you with a man who deserves wider recognition, as much for his constant support of the black community and his commitment to fighting drug addiction as for his on-field stats. Highly recommended.

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POEM: Bongocero

Published 4 June 2009 by Jason Crane

Bongocero
(for Arturo O’Farrill)

the meaty slap of flesh on flesh
the pop of skin on skin
fingertips, the side of the thumb
legs a vice to hold the shells

the heart of the matter is a mix
of rhythm and freedom
of accompaniment and improvisation
of ancient order and modernity

then from the back of the stage
the trumpets kick in
and the bongocero drops his drums,
which fall to the stage with a thud

now it’s skin grasping wood striking metal
as the bell cuts through
the urgent stabs of the horns
and gives a lift to the dancers

gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-go

gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-go

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New episodes of The Jazz Session: Fly and Barbara Dennerlein

Published 20 April 2009 by Jason Crane

fly

Jason Crane interviews the members of the trio Fly: bassist Larry Grenadier, drummer Jeff Ballard and saxophonist Mark Turner. Fly is very much a collective effort — the group operates with a leaderless philosophy in which everyone contributes equally. As a result, the trio has come up with some fresh and exciting sounds as they try new combinations and new ways to balance their respective instruments. All three musicians are very much in demand as sidemen, too. A full transcript of this interview is available at AllAboutJazz.com.

LISTEN TO THE SHOW.

dennerlein

Jason Crane interviews organist Barbara Dennerlein about her pipe organ recording Spiritual Movement No. 2 (Bebab Records, 2008). The album was recorded at one of Germany’s most famous churches in front of a very appreciative audience. In this interview, recorded before a concert in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, Dennerlein discusses jazz on the pipe organ; why organists should use their feet; and how she adapts to the challenge of seldom having her own instrument on stage.

LISTEN TO THE SHOW.

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Some verse commentary from my friend Otto

Published 13 April 2009 by Jason Crane

Here are two lovely poems from my good friend Otto Bruno, host of The Sunday Music Festa on Jazz90.1 in Rochester, NY.

There was an old man name of Crane
for poetry he was a pain
he thought it was worthy
I’d rather have scurvy
than listen to poets inane.

And the other, in haiku form…

Jason was Irish
a blight on his ancestry
he did not drink pints

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The Jazz Session is back!

Published 10 April 2009 by Jason Crane

crispell

THE JAZZ SESSION #52: MARILYN CRISPELL. Jason Crane interviews pianist Marilyn Crispell about her album of solo piano pieces, Vignettes (ECM, 2008). Crispell made an early name for herself with Anthony Braxton, and she’s since amassed an impressive list of recordings that include composed and freely improvised pieces. In this interview, Crispell talks about the nature of improvisation, the particular challenges of solo playing, and the joys of Woodstock, NY.

Listen to the show at thejazzsession.com.

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USA Today writer finds new appreciation for poetry

Published 8 April 2009 by Jason Crane

April is National Poetry Month, and Craig Wilson writes in USA Today that he’s found a new understanding and enjoyment of (some) poetry:

The charms of poetry have long been lost on me. Other than the odd Robert Frost offering —Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, for instance — most poems leave me perplexed. And not pleasantly so.

Did I sleep through that class in college? Or am I just a philistine? Probably both. I will embarrass myself further and confess I’m fond of poems that rhyme. Or at least kind of rhyme. At least make sense.

Then again I like my song lyrics to make sense. Is that too much to ask?

So I was going through a stack of books on my desk the other day and came across Poem in Your Pocket, a new book from Abrams Image. Makes sense. April is National Poetry Month.

Read the rest of the article.

I’m glad that Wilson was able to push past his initial misgivings and find some value in poetry. I don’t think you need to “get” poetry. I just think it’s worth giving it a try.

(Thanks to Harriet for the link.)

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The poems and songs of Robert Burns

Published 5 April 2009 by Jason Crane

I am now quite obsessed with Robert Burns.

The other day I spent my lunch break sitting in a cemetery in Ravena, NY, reading aloud from A Night Out with Robert Burns: The Greatest Poems in a Scottish accent. (Well, I’m calling it a Scottish accent. Many would disagree.) It was fun. Really, really fun. This particular book is divided by subject matter: poems about women, drink, politics, etc. I read quite a few love poems and several about drinking. Then I read — for the first time in my life, I’m embarrassed to say — “Tam O’ Shanter.” What a riot!

I’m also reading Robert Crawford’s new biography of Burns, The Bard: Robert Burns, A Biography. It’s the first biography of Burns that I’ve read, so I can’t compare it to the many volumes that have come before, but the scholarship seems first-rate and the writing is compelling and fresh. It also doesn’t shy away from the political and religious underpinnings of Burns’ work, which I appreciate.

I’ve long been a fan of Old Blind Dogs, the Scottish traditional band. For a while, their lead singer was Jim Malcolm, a wonderful interpreter of the songs of Robert Burns. I just picked up one of his solo recordings, which I highly recommend. It includes his interpretation of “Tam O’ Shanter.”

Just today, I downloaded Eddi Reader’s album of Burns music, Sings The Songs Of Robert Burns:

Oh my. Oh my, oh my. What a voice. What an orchestral accompaniment. What a gorgeous album. Burns fan or not, you need this one in your collection.

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Poetry — from pen and ink to bits and bytes

Published 5 April 2009 by Jason Crane

I recently discovered the blog Via Negativa. The author, Dave Bonta, wrote an interesting piece yesterday about using technology in the writing of poems. Specifically, Bonta talks about moving from pen and paper to a typewriter to a computer, and the effect this has had on his system of revisions. Here’s an excerpt:

I almost never print anything out anymore, which I regret every time the power goes out and I realize that virtually my entire corpus of poetry is inaccessible to me. But it does save enormously on paper, not to mention file cabinet space. I confess that I almost never save different versions (does it still make sense to call them drafts?) as I go along. My friend Todd Davis once told me that he learned the hard way never to over-write old versions with new ones, after an incident in which he only realized after he’d mailed a poem off to a magazine that the previous draft had in fact been superior. Fortunately, he had happened to email that version to his father, so he was able to recover it, but ever since, he said, he’s been very disciplined about saving each significant version as a separate file. I could definitely stand to become more organized about a great many things, but since I’ve never shared his experience of missing an earlier, discarded draft, I doubt I’ll be adopting this particular practice.

This resonated with me. I carry a little notebook with me when I’m out and about so that I can jot down ideas or write poems. The poems written in this notebook have a clear trail of revisions, crossouts and word insertions. But just like Bonta, I don’t save different versions of poems when I write them on the computer. And I think I probably should. I’ve already had the experience of wanting to go back to an earlier version of a poem, and I’ve only been able to do that when it was a piece I originally wrote in a notebook. I think I’ll start saving separate versions. Of course, that means coming up with some sort of naming and filing convention.

My initial idea is to save each poem in a folder with the same name as the poem, and then to use a YYMMDD_poem_title naming convention.

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