JazzUp Thursdays ~ O-Jazz-O War Memoir by Bob Kaufman featuring Thelonious Monk – Monk’s Dream – Take 8

Postcards from The Yellow Room Courtesy of sidsmithdotblogspotdotcom
Postcards from The Yellow Room Courtesy of sidsmithdotblogspotdotcom

 

My head is a bony guitar, strung with tongues, plucked by fingers & nails.”  ~ Bob Kaufman on  his own work

Jazz has always been forced to be political.  More so than any other American Artform.  So if we are to get a better understanding of the jazz, we will have to take a good look at what the outside world and for the longest time jazz has been at some kind of war.  It is only natural that at the tender age of eleven, I had fallen in love with jazz sound and words.  Jazz poetry is the best of both worlds for me.  There ain’t nothin’ in this world I could ask God to give me, than the gift of translating musical notes into words.  Take the shape of a life lived in full measure.  Of course, with that gift I had to face the perfect storms of life and after all that is played and done, a glorious experience and sense of timing.  The art of knowing when to..stop, start, slow it down, staccato and rests carefully placed on the canvas of life.  That knowing has left me craving peace and serenity and knowing deep down to the souls of my heart that the joy comes when we wait,  Waiting is the first born of jazz poetry.  So, I have embraced Jazz and Poetry for the month of April.  Exploring mindfulness meditations and conversations that gives the soul the full acoustic literary dose of memories, dreams, inspiration that expands and awakens the mysterious source of living the life that is waiting for us….  Today I want to take a closer look at Bob Kaufman and unleash the scores of wisdom and insight.  I paired these two because of my dad and my mom have made this all possible… Peace & Love Out!  JBC 😎 & ❤

O-Jazz-O

Bob Kaufman

Where the string
At
some point,
Was umbilical jazz,
Or perhaps,
In memory,
A long lost bloody cross,
Buried in some steel cavalry.
In what time
For whom do we bleed,
Lost notes, from some jazzman’s
Broken needle.
Musical tears from lost
Eyes.
Broken drumsticks, why?
Pitter patter, boom dropping
Bombs in the middle
Of my emotions
My father’s sound
My mother’s sound,
Is love,
Is life.

Poet Jack Micheline said about Kaufman, “I found his work to be essentially improvisational, and was at its best when accompanied by a jazz musician. His technique resembled that of the surreal school of poets, ranging from a powerful, visionary lyricism of satirical, near dadaistic leanings, to the more prophetic tone that can be found in his political poems.

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