Challenge: Angie's Theme

[Tzara]

I was reading an essay by Tony Hoagland the other day and came across this poem

Blues for John Coltrane, Dead at 41
William Matthews

Although my house floats on a lawn
as plush as a starlet's body
and my sons sleep easily,
I think of death's salmon breath
leaping back up the saxophone
with its wet kiss.

Hearing him dead,
I feel it in my feet
as if the house were rocked
by waves from a soundless speedboat
planing by, full throttle.​

which I really liked, as I have been thinking about image in poetry lately, and the imagery in the poem is certainly vivid, even a bit surreal.

But the other thing it made me think is that it is a poem that Angie might like, given her obsession with jazz. (Though she is more a fan of Lester Young than Coltrane.)

Now, I like jazz too, though to nowhere the degree of Ms. A., so I thought I'd try my hand at a poem about a dead jazz guy, say, Bill Evans, whom I really like:

Short Set for a Long Suicide
for Bill Evans

that left hand, with its little clusters of stars
the gentle drift of the right—
..........sleepy stream slipping over stones

how could we know this dreamy sound
was a body floating face down
so always graceful, always calm?​

So. Challenge time.

Write a poem about a musician or musicians (performer, composer, group), preferably a jazz musician, but any kind of musician will do—Billy Idol, Leonard Bernstein, deadmau5, even Sunn(o))) or the Vienna Philharmonic, if you want.

That's all. No other rules.

Carry on.

 

[Angeline]

Angie's Theme makes me feel all Dr. Zhivago. Everybody waltz!

You so know this is right in my wheelhouse, er so to speak. I'll be back. I'm assuming that illustrated poems are good, too?

Oh and L'chaim.

 

[Tzara]

You so know this is right in my wheelhouse, er so to speak. I'll be back. I'm assuming that illustrated poems are good, too?

Why it's titled "Angie's Theme."

And the only rule is that the poem be about a musician or musicians.




And even then, if someone writes a poem about something else, I won't call them on it. At least unless I'm having a bad day.

I've been having some bad days recently, though, so it's probably safer to write a poem about a musician.

 

[butters]

oooh

i think maybe i'll try to write one about a musician, an american (New Yorker) violinist, someone i knew online and met once in london where we strolled the banks of the thames and ate bacon butties watching the boats moored up


*poetic thoughts beginning to happen*

 

[butters]

smart-funny Guy

he loved the lilacs
that spring afternoon
as arm in arm we strolled
reading the river
embracing the hours
sharing naked thoughts as easily
as the bacon we'd enjoyed

and his voice
easy as waters warmed by a southern sun
his poetry spoken affetuoso
full of love for his city
as if his slender fingers stroked
a silk-haired bow across harmonious strings
impromptu solo
before life's orchestra struck up again
to drown us out

...

in a dry world
of airplanes and cities
far removed from the tapestry of his history
he breathes resin and obeys the baton
shares intimacies with the dead
rekindles life in roseate wood
cradled in the warm crook of his neck

and since the felling of the towers
and the long-drawn death of his dear mother
spends small dark hours
alone
with his pen
and a collusion of silence
declaring himself void

everything
ev er ree thing
is a metaphor
he told me

 

[Angeline]

smart-funny Guy

he loved the lilacs
that spring afternoon
as arm in arm we strolled
reading the river
embracing the hours
sharing naked thoughts as easily
as the bacon we'd enjoyed, oy...

and his voice as easy as waters warmed by a southern sun
his poetry spoken affetuoso
full of love for his city
as if his slender fingers stroked
a silk-haired bow across harmonious strings
impromptu solo
before life's orchestra struck up again
to drown us out

...

in a dry world
of airplanes and cities
far removed from the tapestry of his history
he breathes resin and obeys the baton
shares intimacies with the dead
rekindles life in roseate wood
cradled in the warm crook of his neck

and since the felling of the towers
and the long-drawn death of his dear mother
spends small dark hours
alone
with his pen
and a collusion of silence
declaring himself void

everything
ev er ree thing
is a metaphor
he told me

This is very, very good imho. I especially like the ending, where "ev er ree thing" is drawn out like a long wailing note. There's a lot of sonic and subtext underlying the lines that support the theme. I think you could lose a word here and there (like the first "as" in S2L1). Also not sure the "oy" and the following ellipses are serving you well. I didn't like the line breaks at first because here in the Lit box the poem looks untidy to me. But after a few reads, I think that set correctly on a real page (like submitted at Lit, for example), it's perfect.

Well done, Chippy. Kudos (according my two cents' worth).

 

[butters]

This is very, very good imho. I especially like the ending, where "ev er ree thing" is drawn out like a long wailing note. There's a lot of sonic and subtext underlying the lines that support the theme. I think you could lose a word here and there (like the first "as" in S2L1). Also not sure the "oy" and the following ellipses are serving you well. I didn't like the line breaks at first because here in the Lit box the poem looks untidy to me. But after a few reads, I think that set correctly on a real page (like submitted at Lit, for example), it's perfect.

Well done, Chippy. Kudos (according my two cents' worth).

aw, thanks for the help, Angie i thought i'd already lost that first 'as' but couldn't have saved the changes so it's gone now as intended. i've also dropped the 'oy...' which was there only as a nod to Guy's jewish heritage and his love of bacon and his exaggerated 'oy' as we ate you're right, though, it's superfluous.

erm, how do you mean, exactly 'set correctly'? i could make some additional linebreaks, but atm it's set out as i'm reading it, the longer lines attempting to reflect his wonderful wonderful voice. (ok, i've jsut made a new line break - hope it works a little smoother for you. x). honestly, Angie, it's that sort of voice you could listen to all day long and never tire - soft, american, yet with flavours of jewish influence and irish even! it might sound really pretentious that this sweet, gay violin-playing man of a similar age to me was reciting his poetry as we strolled, but it was the furthest thing from it. his humility (a sober alcoholic - dry for 10+years) and funny nature combined with his poetic ramblings made me feel very very blessed

 

[Angeline]

Stormy Weather

Titanic waves are boiling
to the shore, angry slaps
diminishing the strand. Looky
loos blown backward, foggy
sideways rain scowls
upon the cowering land
and coiled sky ready to fume,
to slam the hapless drowning.

Little Hurricane I knew
you in the lemon Sun in beachy
days of tropical banana
warm and Ferris whirling whee
saltwater squeals calliope
then later in the muted silver
night a sailboat swayed
the moonlight low and wouldn't that
be Heaven, just for two?

Tomorrow will be grey and then
tomorrow Stormy's daughter
gets her way again, the mournful
dawn struck dumb, the waiting
to begin begun.

 

[Angeline]

aw, thanks for the help, Angie i thought i'd already lost that first 'as' but couldn't have saved the changes so it's gone now as intended. i've also dropped the 'oy...' which was there only as a nod to Guy's jewish heritage and his love of bacon and his exaggerated 'oy' as we ate you're right, though, it's superfluous.

erm, how do you mean, exactly 'set correctly'? i could make some additional linebreaks, but atm it's set out as i'm reading it, the longer lines attempting to reflect his wonderful wonderful voice. (ok, i've jsut made a new line break - hope it works a little smoother for you. x). honestly, Angie, it's that sort of voice you could listen to all day long and never tire - soft, american, yet with flavours of jewish influence and irish even! it might sound really pretentious that this sweet, gay violin-playing man of a similar age to me was reciting his poetry as we strolled, but it was the furthest thing from it. his humility (a sober alcoholic - dry for 10+years) and funny nature combined with his poetic ramblings made me feel very very blessed

I imagine it as a lovely rambling time and that's because you conveyed it so in the poem, I think.

I meant "don't change the breaks" by "set correctly." My point was that sometimes it's harder to recognize how good line breaks are when you read a poem here in a post as opposed to the more published look of a "submitted" poem (if that makes sense). Sorry for not being clearer about that!

And hey I'm a Jewish American girl who's madly in love with an Irish American musician. What's not to understand?

 

[butters]

Stormy Weather

Titanic waves are boiling
to the shore, angry slaps
diminishing the strand. Looky
loos blown backward, foggy
sideways rain scowls
upon the cowering land
and coiled sky ready to fume,
to slam the hapless drowning.

Little Hurricane I knew
you in the lemon Sun in beachy
days of tropical banana
warm and Ferris whirling whee
saltwater squeals calliope
then later in the muted silver
night a sailboat swayed
the moonlight low and wouldn't that
be Heaven, just for two?

Tomorrow will be grey and then
tomorrow Stormy's daughter
gets her way again, the mournful
dawn struck dumb, the waiting
to begin begun.

couldn't be more apt, Angie.

some lovely lovely musicality in this, and your images pop right out of the page at me, especially where you set up the contrasts of dark and turbulent against this:

I knew
you in the lemon Sun in beachy
days of tropical banana
warm and Ferris whirling whee
saltwater squeals calliope
then later in the muted silver
night a sailboat swayed



lovely lovely stuff, talking pictures

 

[demure101]

Music and poetry - they should go together well. As Shkespeare puts it:

If music and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs, the sister and the brother,
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such
As, passing all conceit, needs no defence.

I'll take up the challenge - for what it"s worth.

Messiaen - Quartet for the End of Time

Liturgy of crystal

Shhh! Listen to the blackbird’s voice, announcing
dawn, a lonely sound, far-off; beautiful, full of longing…
Heaven’s harmony. The small hairs on my back
stand as the morning’s cold and this far, lost voice
combine forces; eternity almost slips in.

Vocalise, for the Angel who announces the end of time

Rainbows shimmer in sound, the cascading waters gone
but the angel’s foot sends up a fine prismatic spray;
we stand lost in awe, listening to the heaven’s glassy harmonies
In a waterfall of notes – and then far distant
the voice of the void, like a monk’s, starts to sing.

Abyss of birds

Hurled through sad time, the birds - a shattering of stars,
Heralds of light, descend on the world, singing their joy
in rainbow halos – all our desires, our fears transformed –
extolling the earth’s beauty as they drop down, down, down…
telling time to cheer up – there is wonder still.

Interlude

Come then, come and listen, and abide – the morning’s growing older.
This slow day we’ll stand entranced and starry-eyed, the cold
Clear beauty of the sad old world a backdrop to our musings –
All around no understanding – Einverständnis – and yet we
Are motionless before this beauty – fearsome, surpassingly strange.

Praise to the eternity of Jesus

Soft and low, the slow voice of love comes to us watchers – soft,
insistent… the Word come alive, the Word transformed.
Wood resounds to the taut strings humming, the warm, sweet voice
that speaks to us about longing, about the love surpassing
all we as capable of – the Word’s eternity.

Dance of fury, for the seven trumpets

Here we all stand, terrified – petrified – the clamour of brass
in this granite outburst makes us shield pour ears, our hearts
palpitating before the purple rage of the elements descending
on us. Misery unleashed upon us, we stand and listen
until the seventh trumpet breaks over us.

Tangle of rainbows, for the Angel who announces the end of time

Shining through the light’s refraction the white brilliance
almost hurts the eye – too bright this beauty, too hard, too high;
our awe overcomes us: ecstatic wonder, love, fear…
All around the rainbows, the stars’ bright explosions –
their colours rain down on our wonder. Our end is near.

Praise to the immortality of Jesus

Music, man – the Word turned Man – and the strings voice
His deep love to our eager ears. He rises in love for us,
ascending the spheres – Please take us along, raise us –
the music a strong pull upwards, higher and higher –
May it take us where we would like to be best.

 

[demure101]

I should have said above that I enjoyed reading Stormy Weather immensely - as well as the other two originals.

 

[bogusagain]

I'm not sure this counts but it is about music.


through the thick soup
of atmospheric pollution
the sinusoidal waves
of 208 radio Luxembourg
delivered a beacon of sound
to light up the audible gloom
the sound curtains, which
depressed our teenage lives

the twangs and thumps
the voices through the fog
happy as a beach party
to our cast a drift island
calmed on a sea of crooning
jazz and turgid classic
music for the deadbeats
of the older generation

the transistor radio
like a compress to the ear
applied sound therapy
reporting Dave Davies
was drowning his sorrows
in whiskey and gin as he drank
to the death of a clown
which was our salvation

 

[Desejo]

Stalingrad Metro station, Paris. The Santur player.

Winter soles tread tunnels solemn
stepping forward, forward
a thousand foot soldiers through Stalingrad
wan faces wrapped, scarves falling like snow on great coats
silently sidestepping gypsies and sleeping drunks
Then sound — soft swirls of sound
as if cherries and sweet pomegranates emit scent
in tales of a thousand and one nights

And people stop

Straight backed in a neat jacket fingers flying soaring
in swift hammering motions like feathers he makes the
santur strings sing, sing
filling these tunnels with nectared nostalgia so strong that
cardamon chai tingles on the tongue
and a family laughs at dinner in Tehran

People stop

slowly forming a circle around
sharing half smiles
more than a few eyes liquid in exile
the black shroud is less heavy and parts, while
white tiled subway arches seem to wash away to
reveal the sun shining in ceramic turquoise

Where no one lives or travels in tunnels

Like Sheherzade, the santur is insatiable
We crave the next session of a story
That never ceases.

 

[demure101]

The other one was a bit overdone, perhaps - this IS about jazz

For Sidney Bechet

Master of reeds, the soprano sax, clarinet,
swing in high registers - sad-hearted smiles -
he must have loved it to play the sarrusophone
while Eva asked Mandy to make up her mind.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

Jonathan Richman

Astral Plane
struts in my ear
swinging leather fringe downhill
assured in promise

tonight I'll see you
on the astral plane

in the darkest face this map can muster
or some compromise accounting for time delay
the minutes between our blocks

Tonight I'll see you
wearing some yearned for leather jacket
That fits even better in dreams and all you need to do
is look up. Lift one foot. Then

we bubble to the surface and bob
our kisses to the cork
of clouds forked to night sky by our
tall tree.

 

[nonfictional]

Every word in this poem is taken from his album titles.

Miles

Bitches dig musings in blue moods
in the sky, in a silent way,
cookin’ quiet brew.

1958 sketches, milestones, around the world:
in Zurich, Berlin, Tokyo, Carnegie Hall;
fun music for you.

Birth of the essential cool, conception
for lovers chasin’ the bird,
Tutu under arrest, water babies too.

On the corner the man with the horn
plays classic ballads, highlights,
walkin’, relaxin’, workin’, steamin’.
Dark prince and sorcerer:
nights will someday come,
kind of in period blue.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

The Ghosts Of Storyville

They’re lurking
at Liberty and First.
where the hiss and slap of Buddy's strop
drifts out from the open door
of “N. Joseph’s Shaving Parlour.”
and the barber’s pole still squeaks.

Buddy Bolden’s Blues
that Morton wrote before
he blew town
spice the air
still not making much sense.

You might find Bunk Johnson
with Bechet and Pops.

Satchmo' smiling his toothy grin
wiping it off again,
his hanky stark
against his big, black face;
he and Batch never were on
friendly terms.

So many souls hang out here
waiting for a blow,
lining up in ghostly queues.

Kid Ory telling his history
in Creole,
Bechet treats it gentle,
always understated
as any ghost should be.

 

[Angeline]

They’re lurking
at Liberty and First.
where the hiss and slap of Buddy's strop
drifts out from the open door
of “N. Joseph’s Shaving Parlour.”
and the barber’s pole still squeaks.

Buddy Bolden’s Blues
that Morton wrote before
he blew town
spice the air
still not making much sense.

You might find Bunk Johnson
with Bechet and Pops.

Satchmo' smiling his toothy grin
wiping it off again,
his hanky stark
against his big, black face;
he and Batch never were on
friendly terms.

So many souls hang out here
waiting for a blow,
lining up in ghostly queues.

Kid Ory telling his history
in Creole,
Bechet treats it gentle,
always understated
as any ghost should be.

I need a "Like" button to hit.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

I need a "Like" button to hit.

Sisters in jazz.

 

[Angeline]

Sisters in jazz.

Blues for Greasy

Oh yes there are those voices in my head.
Ice rattles, then you know you one gone girl
when jazz vamps in and strides to wake the dead,

emboldening the Savoy and the whirl
of sharkskin, grey scale skirts and flying feet.
Ice rattles, then you know you one gone girl.

Who cares? The point just dances in the beat,
it thumps and shouts, a thunderstorm in clouds
of sharkskin, grey scale skirts and flying feet

down avenues that pulse with bars and crowds
ennui that prowls and wails without regret,
it thumps and shouts, a thunderstorm in clouds

inside of me dreaming of time reset.
The President plays tenor, sad and low
ennui that prowls and wails without regret,

and so I listen, gliding in the flow.
Oh yes there are those voices in my head.
The President plays tenor sad and low
so jazz vamps in and strides to wake the dead

 

[KathrynMartin]

Django Reinhardt

Walk to the right side of the river
To the hill of martyrs on Fridays
Suits and dresses it was

Hot fix for the week
As perfectly temped red slides down my throat
The dark boom caressing bellies and thighs
To a trance
And two fingers percussed frenzy
Into me, us – moving in swing

 

[champagne1982]

Girls I'd Like to Kiss #1
Nora Jones

Your lips do more than sing
me jazz. They tantalize
in full softeness to match
the line of your cheek
the curve of your pointed
chin. Close those almond eyes
as my breath flutters
against your lashes. I can't
bear to see the glitter
of your dulcet tones. A shine
so bright it dulls the world
and everything in it; unless
I can hear the lyric of taste,
texture, and soul crooned
as if you give me a lullabye.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

He was my sisters boyfriend
in a group most people had heard of,
much too old and sophisticated for me.
I was twelve, a little girl still,
but I sat close and adored him.
Now my only claim to fame is
the many times I sat on the knee
of one of the Barron Knights.