Music would take over at the point at which words become powerless, with the one and only object of expressing that which nothing but music could express. ~ Debussy
Today it appears that spring has sprung. A warm glow piercing through my window cradling the chill from last evening. Jung wrote: “The serious problems in life are never fully solved. If ever they should appear to be so it is a sure sign that something has been lost. The meaning and purpose of a problem seem to lie not in the solution but in our working at it incessantly. This alone preserves us from stultification and putrefaction.” The San Francisco Bay area is plagued with Homelessness. I know a thing or two about that because things went totally and literally south last May when I gave up my spacious one bedroom apartment in a lovely community off of Puget Sound in Seattle. I wasn’t running from anything, rather, I was running for the life that was waiting for me. Now when I look back, I would have hoped that I could find a place, not like a shelter where I would be able to actualize my dream. But my dream to write and to help others to overcome adversities like money and a place to live where my dreams can come to life and in accordance with God’s plan for all of us.
So to this end 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. I have discovered that there ain’t nothin’ in this world I could ask God to give me than the gift of translating 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.
Exploring mindfulness meditations and conversations that give 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 Beatle Jazz with sounds that are a reflection of growing up. If it were not for the life riff jeering, circumstances filled with timbres that were flat or that shrilled to a thrilling vibrato that casted notes penetrating rhythms of stride that were both arbitrary in nature and where drummers paid homage to the cultural rage and chaos of the streets giving a steady ebb and flow of memory syncopation of tradition with ambient sounds marred by the blue mood of hard times that stirred like a river of notes ornamenting the riots deep and knapped within that scrambled new rhythms and tonal alliterations that struggled against the personal entropy that was disoriented by High Society and an acceptability of just being different. The battle continues to rage between faux and real, inspiration and economic oppression and to actualize a life that understands human pain and is able to transcend it’s ravages became a snap shot of learning by living from my father and my mother because they have made this all possible…Peace & Love Out! JBC 8-)♥ (Excerpt from The Sound I Felt”)
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.
O-Jazz-O War Memoir: Jazz, Don’t Listen To It At Your Own Risk
by Bob Kaufman
In the beginning, in the wet
Warm dark place,
Straining to break out, clawing at strange cables
Hearing her screams, laughing
“Later we forgave ourselves, we didn’t know”
Some secret jazz
Shouted, wait, don’t go.
Impatient, we came running, innocent
Laughing blobs of blood & faith.
To this mother, father world
Where laughter seems out of place
So we learned to cry, pleased
They pronounce human.
The secret Jazz blew a sigh
Some familiar sound shouted wait
Some are evil, some will hate.
“Just Jazz, blowing its top again”
So we rushed & laughed.
As we pushed & grabbed
While jazz blew in the night
Suddenly they were too busy to hear a simple sound
They were busy shoving mud in men’s mouths,
Who were busy dying on the living ground
Busy earning medals, for killing children on deserted street corners
Occupying their fathers, raping their mothers, busy humans we
Busy burning Japanese in atomicolorcinemascope
With stereophonic screams,
What one hundred per cent red blooded savage, would waste precious
Listening to jazz, with so many important things going on
But even the fittest murderers must rest
So they sat down in our blood soaked garments,
and listened to jazz
lost, steeped in all our death dreams
They were shocked at the sound of life, long gone from our own
They were indignant at the whistling, thinking, singing, beating,
They wept for it, hugged, kissed it, loved it, joined it, we drank it,
Smoked it, ate with it, slept with it
They made our girls wear it for lovemaking
Instead of silly lace gowns,
Now in those terrible moments, when the dark memories come
The secret moments to which we admit no one
When guiltily we crawl back in time, reaching away from ourselves
They hear a familiar sound,
Jazz, scratching, digging, blueing, swinging jazz,
And feel, & die.
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