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.

© Copyright  2011-2014 by Jazzybeatchick/JazZenista/Jannat Marie. All rights reserved.

This material is has been copyrighted,  feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks and added to websites; please do not change the content, provide credit by including the author’s name @ http://jazzybeatchick.com and your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Poet’s Beat ~ “Transformation & Escape” by Gregory Corso feat.Gil Fuller & Monterey Jazz Festival – Things Are Here – Feat. Dizzy Gillespie

For Kandinsky-Great grandson Anton S. Kandinsky
For Kandinsky-Great grandson Anton S. Kandinsky

This is a prelude to an understanding and appreciation for poetry and jazz in terms of harmonic complexities and spontaneous or improvisation utterances from the soul of the poet in both an acoustic and literary styles.  The American social and literary movement of the 1950s and ’60s brought out the artists’ communities in San Francisco, Los Angeles, and New York.  For me, I had the best of all of these locations growing up and experimenting with sounds and words and colors.  Its modality was expressed alienation from conventional society and advocated personal expression and illumination infused with an awareness and higher state of consciousness.  The Beat poets, included Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso who sought to liberate poetry from academia creating verse that was syncopated extrapolations of American life that was sometimes sprinkled with missives, and digressions but very powerful and moving.  It was a time that was riddled with LSD and mushrooms from Kerouac that I felt was not truly an expression of genius but a drug induced state that smacked of “Alice in Wonderland” perspective leaving out the key elements of Jazz Poetry and its impact in our lives.  This poem I believe establishes that.  Peace Out! JBC 😎

 

 Transformation & Escape

BY GREGORY CORSO

1

 

I reached heaven and it was syrupy.

It was oppressively sweet.

Croaking substances stuck to my knees.

Of all substances St. Michael was stickiest.

I grabbed him and pasted him on my head.

I found God a gigantic fly paper.

I stayed out of his way.

I walked where everything smelled of burnt chocolate.

Meanwhile St. Michael was busy with his sword

hacking away at my hair.

I found Dante standing naked in a blob of honey.

Bears were licking his thighs.

I snatched St. Michael’s sword

and quartered myself in a great circular adhesive.

My torso fell upon an elastic equilibrium.

As though shot from a sling

my torso whizzed at God fly paper.

My legs sank into some unimaginable sog.

My head, though weighed with the weight of St. Michael,

did not fall.

Fine strands of multi-colored gum

suspended it there.

My spirit stopped by my snared torso.

I pulled! I yanked! Rolled it left to right!

It bruised! It softened! It could not free!

The struggle of an Eternity!

An Eternity of pulls! of yanks!

Went back to my head,

St. Michael had sucked dry my brainpan!

Skull!

My skull!

Only skull in heaven!

Went to my legs.

St. Peter was polishing his sandals with my knees!

I pounced upon him!

Pummeled his face in sugar in honey in marmalade!

Under each arm I fled with my legs!

The police of heaven were in hot pursuit!

I hid within the sop of St. Francis.

Gasping in the confectionery of his gentility

I wept, caressing my intimidated legs.

 

2

 

They caught me.

They took my legs away.

They sentenced me in the firmament of an ass.

The prison of an Eternity!

An Eternity of labor! of hee-haws!

Burdened with the soiled raiment of saints

I schemed escape.

Lugging ampullae its daily fill

I schemed escape.

I schemed climbing impossible mountains.

I schemed under the Virgin’s whip.

I schemed to the sound of celestial joy.

I schemed to the sound of earth,

the wail of infants,

the groans of men,

the thud of coffins.

I schemed escape.

God was busy switching the spheres from hand to hand.

The time had come.

I cracked my jaws.

Broke my legs.

Sagged belly-flat on plow

on pitchfork

on scythe.

My spirit leaked from the wounds.

A whole spirit pooled.

I rose from the carcass of my torment.

I stood in the brink of heaven.

And I swear that Great Territory did quake

when I fell, free.

Gregory Corso, “Transformation & Escape” from The Happy Birthday of Death. Copyright © 1960 by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.

Source: Mindfield: New and Selected Poems (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1989)

 

musical_note_clip_art_12518

Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Part One ~ The Book Proposal for My Memoir: A Song From My Father: A Creative Journey of Race and Legacy ~ featuring Gil Fuller & Monterey Jazz Festival – Things Are Here –Performed by Dizzy Gillespie

I thought it would befitting to tell you that today is my birthday.  Also, last night I had an Aha! Moment when I realized that my website Fifty Shades of Jazz is a composite on canvas of my life….  Importantly it is a composite of the various aspects of my life.  That being said, I feel that I can conceive that there are more than just one book …1- my Breast Cancer journey with my mother (“Saved By Jazz), 2.  Jazz Poetry and Contemporary Visual Arts (“Visual & Acoustic Muse of Jazz), 3.  The one closest to my heart and what I need to write first…Memoir (“A Song From My Father:  A CREATIVE JOURNEY OF RACE AND LEGACY.

The album above would be the companion because it would provide the acoustic substrate for living in the 60’s during the Civil Rights Movement and Countercultural revolution that changed the face and life of America.  I would like to point out that my age is nothing but a number because it my no means does any justice to my challenges and finding meaning in my life or mindfulness improvisations that I learned from my father in the life lessons in jazz.  That jazz creates the same creative inspiration and my instrument and I have to play the utterances that manifest when listening to the sounds that are translated into words.  I would love to know what you are thinking when reading this post because it is the best way to know if I am making the sounds come true in my words.  Besides I love hearing from you…  Thank you for sharing my birthday with me…Peace Out!  JBC

Doodles and sketches for memoir
Doodles and sketches for memoir

Part One

Overview

 

If you were to put  bestsellers  filled  with ingredients  like jazz, culture, life lessons and being a musician, personal transformation and sustainability in MOVING TO HIGHER GROUND:  HOW JAZZ CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE; civil rights riots, insuperable chauvinism, the search for racial identification in America in THE COLOR OF WATER:  A BLACK MAN’S TRIBUTE TO HIS WHITE MOTHER; or have a consciousness raising of living the life you were meant to live as portrayed in DREAMS OF MY FATHER:  A STORY OF RACE AND INHERITANCE add a dash of cross generational creative spiritual journeys amidst the Civil Rights and Counterculture movements of the 50’s and 60’s  in her father’s life it was a passion and dedication to notes and in her life she had fallen in love with the sound of words and jazz, you would be reading A SONG FROM MY FATHER:  A CREATIVE JOURNEY OF RACE AND LEGACY.

In this lyrical, sentimental, and compelling memoir, the daughter of a Creole father and a white American mother searches for her voice and a sustainable creative meaning to her life as a Multiracial American.  It begins in New York in the 1950s on the Upper Westside where her father’s music career as an accomplished  Jazz composer/arranger and band leader take off and who wrote a song for her when she was three years old that inspires a creative spiritual journey in Los Angeles California in the 1960 decade..

The memoir will be divided into five parts of a song:

Overview

If you were to put  bestsellers  filled  with ingredients  like jazz, culture, life lessons and being a musician, personal transformation and sustainability in MOVING TO HIGHER GROUND:  HOW JAZZ CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE; civil rights riots, insuperable chauvinism, the search for racial identification in America in THE COLOR OF WATER:  A BLACK MAN’S TRIBUTE TO HIS WHITE MOTHER; or have a consciousness raising of living the life you were meant to live as portrayed in DREAMS OF MY FATHER:  A STORY OF RACE AND INHERITANCE add a dash of cross generational creative spiritual journeys amidst the Civil Rights and Counterculture movements of the 50’s and 60’s  in her father’s life it was a passion and dedication to notes and in her life she had fallen in love with the sound of words and jazz, you would be reading A SONG FROM MY FATHER:  A CREATIVE JOURNEY OF RACE AND LEGACY.

In this lyrical, sentimental, and compelling memoir, the daughter of a Creole father and a white American mother searches for her voice and a sustainable creative meaning to her life as a Multiracial American.  It begins in New York in the 1950s on the Upper Westside where her father’s music career as an accomplished  Jazz composer/arranger and band leader take off and who wrote a song for her when she was three years old that inspires a creative spiritual journey in Los Angeles California in the 1960 decade..

The memoir will be divided into five parts of a song:

~ Part One – Prelude will begin with a grace note of appreciation to my father.  Jazz as an Imitation of American Life will be a narrative of the author’s life  living immersed in 60’s Watts Riots and how the jazz world became her refuge and salvation.  Feature an article entitled THE UNRECOGNIZED TITAN by Leonard Feather, DOWNBEAT Magazine Feburary, 1966

~  Part Two  –  Measures – will lyrically capture how the author’s exposure to jazz rehearsals and interactions with musicians and writers provided a catalyst to living a creative life as a writer no matter what.  It is what one has to do to live with music or will die with noise and chaos.

~ Part Three – Chorus – will chronicle what the author discovered how mindfulness meditation and improvisation are the elements in jazz that musicians  used to make it through the strife and still expressing oneself as a way of coping and dealing with racism and chauvinism and hostility to be present and lean into her life actualizing a sense of serenity, a peace that thrives on understanding and acceptance. with grace

~ Part Four ~ Bridges – • Homecoming  the author was living in San Francisco, when she found out in November of 1989 that both of her parents were sick and I decided to come home to New York.  On her father’s deathbed the author had a chance to talk intimately with her father and tell him how miserable she felt because she was not living the life she felt was meant for her and wanted him to show her how and if he ever thought she had talent to write.  We came to an understanding before he died and I forgave him liberating us to transition opening his heart to die.

~ Part Five CODA – Finding My Way  – the author discovers the Gibson guitar her father kept for her in the basement and when opening it she realized that he kept all of my poems and journals nestled between the guitar and sheet music and a note he wrote ~ To My Daughter ~ I always knew you could write your heart out and I wrote a song for you to help you to discover that you cannot live without exploring and developing her gifts.

 

The memoir has approximately 75,000 words to date. The manuscript will be completed twelve months after receipt of the advance to help defray editing and publishing costs. It will be written under the pseudonym of Jannat Marie.

musical_note_clip_art_12518

 

Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Jazz on Canvas ~ Apology Of Genius by Mina Loy feat. Thurston Moore’s “Mina Loy”

La Maison en papier_drawing and gouache by Mina Loy 1906 Courtesy of Michael Duncan Collection
La Maison en papier_drawing and gouache by Mina Loy 1906 Courtesy of Michael Duncan Collection

Born in England Mina Loy worked as a poet and visual artist in Paris, Florence, and New York City, where her beauty and outlandish behavior demonstrated at the center of several avant-garde circles. The eccentric vocabulary and syntax of Loy’s free-verse poems and their sardonic treatment of love can puzzle and offend, but no reader can question the work’s originality nor the poet’s fierce intelligence.  In the top of the 20th Century when Jazz was born as a new American cultural art form Mina repleat with swagger, style, panache challenging the upper crust society in America and dropping and become part of the scene in New York City.  Peace Out!  JBC 😎

Apology Of Genius

by Mina Loy

Ostracized as we are with God
The watchers of the civilized wastes
reverse their signals on our track

Lepers of the moon
all magically diseased
we come among you
innocent
of our luminous sores

unknowing
how perturbing lights
our spirit
on the passion of Man
until you turn on us your smooth fools’ faces
like buttocks bared in aboriginal mockeries

We are the sacerdotal clowns
who feed upon the wind and stars
and pulverous pastures of poverty

Our wills are formed
by curious disciplines
beyond your laws

You may give birth to us
or marry us
the chances of your flesh
are not our destiny —

The cuirass of the soul
still shines —
And we are unaware
if you confuse
such brief
corrosion with possession

In the raw caverns of the Increate
we forge the dusk of Chaos
to that imperious jewellery of the Universe
— the Beautiful —

While to your eyes
A delicate crop
of criminal mystic immortelles
stands to the censor’s scythe

 

Japanese translation for meaning

Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Poet’s Beat ~ “A Goodnight” by William Carlos Williams feat. James Moody performing “Night Flight”

Jazz- Miles-Davis-15-yuriy-shevchuk
Jazz- Miles-Davis-15-yuriy-shevchuk

 selected a sound that would best accompany William Carlos Williams  A Goodnight with James Moody “Night Flight” because it reminds me of the night that the Monterey Jazz Festival Orchestra was off on its European tour with Art, Blakey, Dizzy, the 25 other musicians  and their families kicking off a Bon Voyage Party set to take flight around midnight in October 1965.  The tempo/beat/rhythm is a perfect combo to drop into to the 4th  of July celebration.  Peace Out!  JBC 😎

 

  

A Goodnight 

by William Carlos Williams

 

Go to sleep—though of course you will not—
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—
sleep, sleep . . .
Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—
lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream—

A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors—
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window. Pay no
heed to him. He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.

The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.

The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you—
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—

 

Japanese translation for meaning

Copyright 2011-2014  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

 

Poet’s Beat ~ “Dusk” Written by DuBose Heyward Feat. Schawkie Roth – “Dark Healing”

Courtesy of Fine Art Prints·... purple modern sunset paintings purple contemporary sunset paintings
Courtesy of Fine Art Prints·… purple modern sunset paintings purple contemporary sunset paintings

I am in the present. I cannot know what tomorrow will bring forth. I can know only what the truth is for me today. That is what I am called upon to serve, and I serve it in all lucidity.

~ Igor Stravinsky

 

I hope that you all had a wonderful weekend.  I was looking through my classic jazz productions and came across a wonderful memory of the San Francisco Opera of Porgy & Bess.  DuBose Heyward is an extraordinary poet.  I thought this poem was a beautiful reflection that I love to start my day and somehow staying present I am more receptive to wellness, and ready to lean into life’s mystery.  I am working on my memoir proposal and finishing the first draft.  Peace Out!  JBC 😎

 

Dusk

by DuBose Heyward

They tell me she is beautiful, my City,
That she is colorful and quaint, alone
Among the cities. But I, I who have known
Her tenderness, her courage, and her pity,
Have felt her forces mould me, mind and bone,
Life after life, up from her first beginning.
How can I think of her in wood and stone!
To others she has given of her beauty,
Her gardens, and her dim, old, faded ways,
Her laughter, and her happy, drifting hours,
Glad, spendthrift April, squandering her flowers,
The sharp, still wonder of her Autumn days;
Her chimes that shimmer from St. Michael‘s steeple
Across the deep maturity of June,
Like sunlight slanting over open water
Under a high, blue, listless afternoon.
But when the dusk is deep upon the harbor,
She finds _me_ where her rivers meet and speak,
And while the constellations ride the silence
High overhead, her cheek is on _my_ cheek.
I know her in the thrill behind the dark
When sleep brims all her silent thoroughfares.
She is the glamor in the quiet park
That kindles simple things like grass and trees.
Wistful and wanton as her sea-born airs,
Bringer of dim, rich, age-old memories.
Out on the gloom-deep water, when the nights
Are choked with fog, and perilous, and blind,
She is the faith that tends the calling lights.
Hers is the stifled voice of harbor bells
Muffled and broken by the mist and wind.
Hers are the eyes through which I look on life
And find it brave and splendid. And the stir
Of hidden music shaping all my songs,
And these my songs, my all, belong to her.

© DuBose Heyward. All rights reserved

Japanese translation for meaning

Copyright  by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

 

 

Poet’s Beat ~ Nothing but Trouble by Richard Jackson feat. Charlie Parker’s All the Things You Are

Courtesy of  Creative Commons Abstract_expressionist_contemporary_painting
Courtesy of Creative Commons Abstract_expressionist_contemporary_painting

The Puget Sound Race for the Cure went off with out a hitch yesterday.  It marks my 11th year as a Volunteer and living with the vestiges of the consequences of breast cancer.  I am grateful now of this disease that has taken my mom and women around the world from this moment.  Today is seems that the pairing of Bird’s “All the Things You Are and Richard Jackson’s “Nothing but Trouble” places me into a playful mood or mindfulness that allows me to see the lovely acousticand visual portraits that are capable of bringing a smile and a tear in the same moment.  Have a wonderful day,  Peace Out!  JBC 😎

 

Nothing but Trouble
………….The nothing that is not, and the nothing that is.
…………………………………-Stevens

So there was Alexander Graham Bell hanging around the back
of my mind. Some short circuit or another had confused him
with a barn owl, the barn owl with a dove, and the dove
with a blue heron. Just when you think nothing is there
it appears like an unseen planet you know only by the way
its sun wobbles. But why did he suddenly appear here
in the cavernous Basilica di San Francesco at Arezzo? Like us
with all the space between our atoms, or all that space between
planets, it is mostly nothing. At the far altar is the famous fresco
of Adam dying. Bell wanted to invent a machine to talk to
the dead. That’s why he seemed so blue. We could say he’s like
this or like that, but “like” really only tells more of what he is not.
Scientists tell us you can only see the real world by not looking
at it. When you look you change it. Is that why Terri’s picture
of the Moose came out blank? It seems like more trouble
to see things than to imagine them, so I’ll go on here. Five year old
Emily says there is a little world inside each flower. Some
Begonia petals are called Angel Wings. Her sister,
Anna, reads messages from her dead friend in vapor trails.
When we arrived at the town buried beneath the dam’s waters
there was nothing but what we could imagine, and that was enough.
It’s hard to call anything what it is. Ezekial ate God‘s scroll
to learn his words. Most of the wall frescoes here have been
painted over because it was too much trouble to keep them up.
Sometimes you can catch the faintest outline of one before
it dissolves like a cloud. There’s no secret that is secret.
The glowing clouds in each galaxy will soon broadcast
what laws have formed them. Terri says the bottoms
of cumulous clouds are flat because that’s the way children
draw them. The void doesn’t care what laws we have for it.
Sometimes she fingers through the abandoned lives left hanging
on the clothes rack at the second hand store. When you see them
fluttering in the rafters above the altar you could believe the soul
lives in the doves’ coo. The trouble is they are trying to get rid
of them. Nothing but trouble the Sexton mumbles over the rattle
of his key chain. My friend Amy says she avoids trouble by
becoming invisible. Sometimes we’re just a scale in need of a weight.
Trouble is when you think you are invisible and you are just trouble.
Meteors are invisible until the burn up in the atmosphere.
It’s what kills things that makes them visible. Levinas says
that we are involved in everyone’s death. That means the nameless
juvenile killed in the drive by on 36th street, and the girl gutted
for attending school in Afghanistan. Flocks of souls rise form
the desert like a mirage. The tongues of the silent sit like coffins.
They say nothing of the acid thrown in the girls’ faces, nothing
about what God might mean. They are no Ezekials. Nor are we.
But what was Alexander Bell supposed to mean in all this?
That the only worlds that endure are what we invent?
He wanted to build a clock for a time beyond our own.
Its beds are empty. Its rivers run dry. Oars with no boats.
One thing begins to cancel out another until nothing is left.
There are such abandoned places inside me, I don’t know.
Spinoza said the soul is just the body’s idea of itself.
He thought God was a precise but invisible clock.
This isn’t getting me anyplace. Maybe I should have
ignored Bell and started with the heron. I saw a perfect
white one fly over the Thai restaurant the other night.
There are too many ideas flickering here like those votive
candles trying to fill the hollow spaces of the church.
Some of them flicker then turn into invisible daylight stars.
In the beginning the universe was nothing but a quantum see saw.
In some Churches the candles are electric which takes us
back to Alexander Bell. I have to find a way for him to leave.
All of our light is borrowed from somewhere that’s
no longer where it was, the galaxies, the sun, our own
solar system all running away from each other
and leaving a kind of vacuum we’ll never fill.
No wonder the figures in our dreams always disguise
who they really are. There’s hardly anyone in this church
except the woman mourning at the side altar for her
dying husband. What do we call the space we leave behind?
Aeneas grasped the empty air he thought was his mother.
Is that why we feel a presence when there’s nothing there?
Leonardo’s lost Battle of Anghiari probably lies hidden
behind Vasari‘s great painting in the city hall of Florence.
Or it may not. X-Rays will tell us. But when you take away
anything there is still the space it occupied. It’s nothing.
No one except Goya knew how to show war’s real horrors
like his man impaled on a scrub oak tree, something
like what they’ve done in Bosnia. Or to Neda Agha Soltan
pictured shot and dying on a Tehran street by a cell phone
Bell once imagined as his visible speech machine.
If only we could be invisible to the shadows holding guns.
We never know how many beats are left in our hearts.
Still, if you do nothing you might as well be invisible.
Nothing lasts forever. The clocks are frowning. The soul
sounds hoarse. A farmer plows up a decades-old bomb.
There are baby stars being born in the empty space
of the universe. When they die they turn into diamonds.
No one knows why one of the stars in Orion is shrinking.
Most of what I’ve mentioned here came from text messages.
The tourists phones glow like tiny halos over their words.
We’ve begun to decipher radio waves from the big bang.
Is it true that we came from nothing? that those figures
in the backs of our minds are nothing but short circuits
or like the names worn off of old tombstones? like these
shattered frescoes searching for their originals? What
about you who I’ve kept hidden here all this time? Sometimes
we leave our feelings in the mirror for the next person
to put on. Our promises leave without closing the door.
They wander troubled among our dying neurons. That’s why
we can hear the heart’s despair in that little ringing in
our ears. Maybe the soul is a player piano we pretend to play.
In the altar fresco Moses is saying his last words to everyone
he’s loved. For a moment he seems to want to reach for
whatever last vision walks in shadow across his brain.
I can hear the Sexton starting to close the doors.
I think each of these sentences can fit into their own twitter.
How far have the light photons around us traveled?
The lines from here to there are all down. The man outside is
selling postcards from the Rapture. It doesn’t include me.
This used to be troubling but now its nothing.
Whatever Moses said rests like a refugee in his brain.
His trees seem to grasp the sky. His hope is scratching
new stories in the stained glass. The last tourists listen
to their guided earphones as if the static could tell them
what he was promised, but it’s nothing, nothing at all.

 

Japanese translation for meaning

Copyright © 2011-2014 by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted,  feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and, provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name @ http://jazzybeatchick.com and your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

 

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Poet’s Beat ~WORDS FOR JAZZ PERHAPS by Michael Longley feat. Art Farmer’s Darn That Dream

Abstract of Song
Abstract of Song

Many classical musicians believed that jazz was not to be evaluated on the same level as Puccini or Chopin jazz received a certain amount of respect from literary figures and classical musicians.  From the syncopated rhythms to the lyrical improvisation, jazz fascinated many people from “high society” in American culture.  With the elevation of this distinctly African-American art form came  respect and dignity that African Americans had often been deprived of.  So here’s to jazz and its wonderful and mysterious influence on contemporary visual & literary arts. Peace Out!  JBC 😎

WORDS FOR JAZZ PERHAPS

by Michael Longley

 

I
Elegy for Fats Waller
Lighting up, lest all our hearts should break,
His fiftieth cigarette of the day,
Happy with so many notes at his beck
And call, he sits there taking it away,
The maker of immaculate slapstick.

With music and with such precise rampage
Across the deserts of the blues a trail
He blazes, towards the one true mirage,
Enormous on a nimble-footed camel
And almost refusing to be his age.

He plays for hours on end and though there be
Oases one part water, two parts gin,
He tumbles past to reign, wise and thirsty,
At the still centre of his loud dominion –
THE SHOOK, THE SHAKE, THE SHEIKH OF ARABY.

II
BILLIE HOLIDAY
(An Epitaph)
DEATH, LIKE ALL YOUR HABITS, CAME TO STAY,
DARED FACE YOUR MUSIC, TOOK YOUR BREATH AWAY.

III
BUD FREEMAN IN BELFAST
(November 1965)
Fog horn and factory siren intercept
Each fragile hoarded-up refrain. What else
Is there to do but let those notes erupt.

Until your fading last glissando settles
Among all other sounds – carefully wrapped
In the cotton wool from aspirin bottles?

IV
TO BESSIE SMITH
You bring from Chattanooga Tenessee
Your huge voice to the back of my mind
Where, like sea shells salvaged from the sea
As bright reminders of a few week’s stay,
Some random notes are all I ever find.
I couldn’t play your records every day.

I think of tra-ra-rossan, Inisheer,
Of Harris drenched by horizontal rain –
Those landscapes I must visit year by year.
I do not live with sounds so seasonal
Nor set up house for good. Your blues contain
Each longed-for holiday, each terminal.

Japanese translation for meaning

 

Copyright © 2011-2014 by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted, feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and please provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name or visual artist @ http://jazzybeatchick.com your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

 

Poet’s Beat ~ “Hanging Fire” by Audre Lorde Accompanied by Nina Simone “These Times They Are A Changing”

39 Notes Courtesy of artismyaddiction by Cherrybam
39 Notes Courtesy of artismyaddiction by Cherrybam

“For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action. Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought. The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives.”  Audre Lorde

For me, Feminism growing up in the 60’s with respect to the Black Culture was steeped in the Civil Rights Movement.  It was separate from the Feminist Movement because race was the primary focus.  The movement encompassed a mosaic of ethnicities within American life.  Audre came from Caribbean roots.  Lorde was a revolutionary within the revolution. While other activists and artists who considered themselves radicals had their hands full promoting Black power or the feminist revolution, Lorde promoted Black feminism.   Lorde emphasized the need for Black lesbian feminism by describing herself as a “blackfeminist, lesbian, mother, poet warrior.”  It became evident that black feminists were a subset of Civil Rights movement and was borne out of necessity and classification purposes.  I do not ascribe to the feminist point of view however, I do believe in equality with respect to Civil Rights and in the Art world as well as the sociopolitical agendas that prevailed during those times. Ms. Lorde could have added first-generation immigrant and cancer patient. In The Cancer Journals, published in 1980, Lorde addressed the traumatic experience of having a mastectomy. Breast cancer was the illness that finally killed Lorde in 1992, at age 58, after a 14-year battle.  When it comes to breast cancer, it doesn’t matter how many labels you would refer to oneself because it has the same devastating effects no matter what race you are.  Peace Out!  JBC 😎

 

 

Hanging Fire

by Audre Lorde

 

 

I am fourteen
and my skin has betrayed me
the boy I cannot live without
still sucks his tumb
in secret
how come my knees are
always so ashy
what if I die
before the morning comes
and momma’s in the bedroom
with the door closed.

I have to learn how to dance
in time for the next party
my room is too small for me
suppose I de before graduation
they will sing sad melodies
but finally
tell the truth about me
There is nothing I want to do
and too much
that has to be done
and momma’s in the bedroom
with the door closed.

Nobody even stops to think
about my side of it
I should have been on Math Team
my marks were better than his
why do I have to be
the one
wearing braces
I have nothing to wear tomorrow
will I live long enough
to grow up
and momma’s in the bedroom
with the door closed.

Japanese translation for meaning

 

Copyright © 2011-2014 by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted,  feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and, provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name @ http://jazzybeatchick.com and your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.

Poet’s Beat ~ “Trumpet Player” by Langston Hughes Accompanied by Liner Notes on “Manteca” feat. Dizzy Gillespie

MJFO rehearsal 1965 I was blessed to be there wih Ralph J. Gleason
MJFO rehearsal 1965 I was blessed to be there wih  Dizzy, My Dad in front and  seated next to Ralph J. Gleason

Liner Notes

 

As we wrap up Poetry Month I selected my father’s arrangement for Dizzy Gillespie entitled  Manteca  with a 20-piece big band assembled on May 24, 1954 recorded a piquant 16-and-a-half-minute suite in five movements.  It is a metaphor for my life.  I was the “native” daughter of the Jazz world in the ‘60’s where the reining tradition was parents had the final word.  My father was a complicated man of contradictions.  Reading and writing poems was a break for freedom escaping the insuperable labyrinth of gender and race that consumed mixed little girls like me. I would hold up in my room for hours overhearing myself admit difficult truths that I could not hide from. I didn’t know how or when I would make my move.  This is my first rehearsal — a chance to explore the province of sound and as Kerouac coined it “beatitude”.  That is when I found my rhythm and started writing poems and improvised prose.  The rehearsal was now under way, it became an invitation to my imagination evoking my love for writing – cultivating a joy deep in my heart.  The studio was silent. My father taps the baton 3 times, the horns begin to play on the downbeat, the cymbal keeps time….Dizzy’s cheeks puffed, trumpet poised as he began to play…Man from Monterey.  Ralph J. Gleason from the Chronicle summed it up on the album’s liner notes…The 1965 Monterey Jazz Festival music clearly is designed to last.  This amalgam of the talents of Gillespie and Fuller are insurance that it will. The orchestra played the music at this session for all time, which is the way good jazz is always played. I had fallen in love with the sound of words, even though I had to keep my writing a secret.   Langston Hughes was an icon when I was growing up and he wrote this poem for all the unsung trumpet players…Hope you enjoy both and feel the way I feel every time I hear it… Peace Out~  JBC 😎

 

 

 

Trumpet Player

by Langston Hughes

 

 

The Negro
With the trumpet at his lips
Has dark moons of weariness
Beneath his eyes
where the smoldering memory
of slave ships
Blazed to the crack of whips
about thighs

The negro
with the trumpet at his lips
has a head of vibrant hair
tamed down,
patent-leathered now
until it gleams
like jet-
were jet a crown

the music
from the trumpet at his lips
is honey
mixed with liquid fire
the rhythm
from the trumpet at his lips
is ecstasy
distilled from old desire-

Desire
that is longing for the moon
where the moonlight’s but a spotlight
in his eyes,
desire
that is longing for the sea
where the sea’s a bar-glass
sucker size

The Negro
with the trumpet at his lips
whose jacket
Has a fine one-button roll,
does not know
upon what riff the music slips

It’s hypodermic needle
to his soul
but softly
as the tune comes from his throat
trouble
mellows to a golden note

Langston Hughes

Submitted: Saturday, March 27, 2010

 

Japanese translation for meaning

Copyright © 2011-2014 by Jannat Marie/Jazzybeatchick. All rights Reserved.

This material has been copyrighted,  feel free to share it with others; it can be distributed via social media or pingbacks or added to websites; please do not change the original content and, provide appropriate credit by including the author’s name @ http://jazzybeatchick.com and your readers shall not be charged by you under any circumstance.