Best Poems - Music

Best Poems – MUSIC

Jazz – Frank London Brown

“It started with an alto horn, and a young
boy who’d grown faster than he should have, and
who’d become great before he should have, and
who sought for the source of the feeling deep in-
side before he should have. He stood in his room
and started with a short burst of notes, and then
sought the tone he’d felt inside him, but which
he couldn’t match he couldn’t match by blowing.
He blew, fast, and beautifully; seeking the right
burst of notes, notes blown so fast that only God’s
perfection would be a match for it. He tried for
a tone that he’d never heard, but which he knew
as a sensation of mystery, of greatness, a feeling
that he was bigger than he seemed to be, could
blow faster than his fingers were letting him,
could cry out the tone that cried within him. All
this strained inside him, strained and drove him,
pushed him and made him whip his fingers upon
the valves of his horn until they hurt. And his
lungs seemed to bleed inside; his eyes ran water,
and he kept blowing, and blowing, with his eyes
closed to the white of the daytime and the touch
of the wind and the sound of the fists banging
at the door, and the bark of the voices outside
his door, shouting: ‘Open up! It’s the police!
What’s going on in there?'”

Man Listening To Disc – Billy Collins

“This is not bad—
ambling along 44th Street
with Sonny Rollins for company,
his music flowing through the soft calipers
of these earphones,

as if he were right beside me
on this clear day in March,
the pavement sparkling with sunlight,
pigeons fluttering off the curb,
nodding over a profusion of bread crumbs.

In fact, I would say
my delight at being suffused
with phrases from his saxophone—
some like honey, some like vinegar—
is surpassed only by my gratitude

to Tommy Potter for taking the time
to join us on this breezy afternoon
with his most unwieldy bass
and to the esteemed Arthur Taylor
who is somehow managing to navigate

this crowd with his cumbersome drums.
And I bow deeply to Thelonious Monk
for figuring out a way
to motorize—or whatever—his huge piano
so he could be with us today.

This music is loud yet so confidential
I cannot help feeling even more
like the center of the universe
than usual as I walk along to a rapid
little version of ‘The Way You Look Tonight,’

and all I can say to my fellow pedestrians,
to the woman in the white sweater,
the man in the tan raincoat and the heavy glasses,
who mistake themselves for the center of the universe—
all I can say is watch your step,

because the five of us, instruments and all,
are about to angle over
to the south side of the street
and then, in our own tightly knit way,
turn the corner at Sixth Avenue.

And if any of you are curious
about where this aggregation,
this whole battery-powered crew,
is headed, let us just say
that the real center of the universe,

the only true point of view,
is full of hope that he,
the hub of the cosmos
with his hair blown sideways,
will eventually make it all the way downtown.”

Turning The Tables – Joel Dias-Porter (a.k.a., DJ Renegade 1962)

“First hold the needle
like a lover’s hand
Lower it slowly
let it tongue
the record’s ear
Then cultivate
the sweet beats
blooming in the valley
of the groove
Laugh at folks
that make requests
What chef would let
the diners determine
Which entrees
make up the menu?
Young boys
think it’s about
flashy flicks
of the wrist
But it’s about filling the floor
with the manic
language of dance
About knowing the beat
of every record
like a mama knows
her child’s cries
Nobody cares
how fast you scratch
Cuz it ain’t about
soothing any itch
It’s about how many hairstyles
are still standing
At the end of the night.

The Weary Blues – Langston Hughes

“Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,

Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,

I heard a Negro play.

Down on Lenox Avenue the other night

By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light

He did a lazy sway. . . .

To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.

With his ebony hands on each ivory key

He made that poor piano moan with melody.

O Blues!

Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool

He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.

Sweet Blues!

Coming from a black man’s soul.

O Blues!

In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone

I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—

‘Ain’t got nobody in all this world,

Ain’t got nobody but ma self.

I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’

And put ma troubles on the shelf.’

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.

He played a few chords then he sang some more—

‘I got the Weary Blues

And I can’t be satisfied.

Got the Weary Blues

And can’t be satisfied—

I ain’t happy no mo’

And I wish that I had died.

And far into the night he crooned that tune.

The stars went out and so did the moon.

The singer stopped playing and went to bed

While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.

He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.”

No More Jazz at Alcatraz – Bob Kaufman

“No More Jazz
at Alcatraz
No more piano
for Lucky Luciano
No more trombone
for Al Capone
No More Jazz
at Alcatraz
No more cello
for Frank Costello
No more screeching of the
Seagulls
As they line up for
Chow
No More Jazz
at Alcatraz”

Instrument Of Choice – Robert Phillips

“She was a girl
no one ever chose
for teams or clubs,
dances or dates,

so she chose the instrument
no one else wanted:
the tuba. Big as herself,
heavy as her heart,

its golden tubes
and coils encircled her
like a lover’s embrace.
Its body pressed on hers.

Into its mouthpiece she blew
like, its deep-throated
oompahs, oompahs sounding,
almost, like mating cries.”

Just Rollin’ Along – Ishmael Reed

“It was ’34 Oklahoma and L.C. was doing a gig
People were doing the Texas Two Step
And greasing on the pig
There were mounds upon mounds of ice cream
The pies were crusty and fine
The following story is true and I ain’t lying’
Good Rockin’ Robinson was packing them in
But the noise of a Ford sedan disrupted the
Din
A woman and a man
The man had a grin

They were
Just rollin’ along
Just rollin’ along

Her lap held a Thompson
The barrel was long
‘I’ll give you 12 silver dollars,’ she said
‘If you play our song’
‘I’m sitting on top of the world’
‘I’m sitting on top of the world’

They were Just rollin’ along
Just rollin’ along

They paid Good Rockin’ and
Were on their way
Very few in the crowd will forget that
Day
The policeman pulled up
He was all out of breath
‘Did you see a couple in a Ford
Come this way?
She was dapper,’ he said
‘He wore a Newsboy cap
And a pistol on his side.’

Good Rockin’ asked who was
In that ride
The policeman said
‘It was Bonnie and Clyde’
The policeman said
‘It was Bonnie and Clyde’

They were
Just rollin’ along
Just rollin’ along”

One O’Clock Jump – Paul Zimmer

“Still tingling with Basie’s hard cooking,
between sets I stood at the bar
when the man next to me ordered
scotch and milk. I looked to see who had
this stray taste and almost swooned
when I saw it was the master.
Basie knocked his shot back,
then, when he saw me gaping,
raised his milk to my peachy face
and rolled out his complete smile
before going off with friends
to leave me in that state of grace.

A year later I was renting rooms
from a woman named Tillie who wanted
no jazz in her dank, unhallowed house.
Objecting even to lowest volume of solo piano,
she’d puff upstairs to bang on my door.

I grew opaque, unwell,
slouched to other apartments,
begging to play records.
Duked, dePrezed, and unBased,
longing for Billy, Monk, Brute, or Zoot,
I lived in silence through
that whole lost summer.

Still aware of divine favor, I bided time
and waited for the day of reckoning.
My last night in Tillie’s godless house,
late—when I knew she was hard asleep—
I gave her the full One O’Clock Jump,
having Basie ride his horse of perfect time
like an avenging angel over top volume,
hoisting his scotch and milk as he galloped
into Tillie’s ear, headlong down her throat
to roar all night in her sulphurous organs.”

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