Believe it or not there have been times when jazz and poetry intertwine. The music inspires the poetry and creates a non-mainstream style of writing... jazz poetry. Innovations in music and poetics in the early part of the 20th century surfaced in the 1920's. The simultaneous evolution of poetry and jazz music was not lost upon musicians and writers of the time. The two art forms merge and form the genre of jazz poetry. However, note that there's a distinction between poets who write about jazz music (jazz-related poetry) and poets who capture the tone, rhythm and cadence ...read more
Carlos Santana turned me on to himin an article in Guitar Player magazineI read at the Hingham library,at 14: spiritual centerof his Baja brain,and mine now,for 35 years,in Boston, in the rainafter a storm...the storm--it lasted years,years when I couldn't listen to the fellow,so powerful his song,so powerful the memories of lossand pain, in those early yearsI first discovered himin the basement of the Hingham library:they had a ...read more
[Written during guitarist Stian Westerhus' solo show, June 4, 2012 at Green Hours Jazz Fest, Bucharest.]I see things, scary things,wars and ghosts,planes and meadows.I hear my pulse and the bloodrushing through my veins,I see an old clock on a marble mantelpieceand I see the time falling apartin seconds I have already forgotten.The city traffic stops at the crossroadsto listen to the church bells,and the birds in the parkchirp heard by no one.The gears of ...read more
On the ebony off-keys, your hands,your head in a veil of black mist, tonicto your turquoise evening gown. Poised as a turtle dove on an eave,you press an index finger on the ivory,liberating a passel of scales zooming down like falcons in a swarm,your colony and command,to a Japanese baseball diamond playing field for a perfect game,blossoming cherries shakingtheir softest petals raining onto the grass still green in drearNovember sunlight, still shiningtinting ...read more
Shimmering behind Bill's subtle reharmonies of the Gershwin tune LaFaro's pungent doublestops and even that asshole girl's phony laugh at the climax is your intelligence I've never heard nor ever will hear the like it's only Sunday night at the Village Vanguard but I feel it's the garden of Eden Years later it actually was or you made us think it was again when you wrote that primeval drone four notes the tenors moan in unison you obstinately not keeping the beat and three electric guitars jangling like cicadas ...read more
I have seen the stage lights playthe sly sagacity of Henry's smile:the lightning on his lips, decadesdark with spattered starlight coming back to his eyes.To win words from that smilethat opens like a jackknifedrawing blood from parchment spurting the sanguine melodythe black sage spun like spiderin fury wrapping Ayler's axe--it is a dream, unless the song of '66 wire its sound and touchthe new decade... Blade slicesagain in air, ...read more
Spring was the sweat running down the back of her legs. It is the pack of young dogs running down the street in their best clothes, new haircuts and fresh packs of smokes always kept in the left pocket of their sports coats. Ready to offer one up to a beautiful or willing lady, unwrapping the cellophane in front of her, the pack as yet unopened granting the illusion of being overly flush. There is plenty more where that came from 'Darlin. The Jardin des Plantes, a wealth of flowerbeds full of poppies with warped medallion shaped heads ...read more
I play the folk song twice once to ring out the singed changes, again in order that
nothing comes between you and me, however the notes pound for release from a cage...
A piece by Cage, you know the one, the 4' 33" of silence no one explains to satisfaction.
The notes--are there any, and, do they come to ground? I have a theory: the absence of theory
characterizes the piece, a piece of peace, no schooling in scales required. ...read more
for Louis Armstrong
I saw the Satchmo's shack of brick needle stopped on record warped humble as a corona with a cognac
fixtures plated gold reflecting me, directing me to the s'all" in early fall stilling solos beat out on the balcony,
to the pitch of jet the great one spit down the scarlet throat of the strike zone, in the kitchen, oak, lacquered
to sheen of formica, blue as faith, as the blues--as a word of faith ...read more
Join our growing community ofwriters, musicians, visual artists and advocates.
One moment, you will be redirected shortly.