An Albert Ayler (poetic) interlude
Albert Ayler, the Cleveland-born saxophonist whose unorthodox style was inspirational to a generation of free jazz-era and contemporary musicians, is noted in four poems, by four poets
Archive for “Poetry”
“Jazz Guitar Chronicles 7” — a poem by John Stupp
It doesn’t help
that my guitar starts complaining
ok
a 1935 Epiphone Broadway
probably had owners who were better players before me
sure
and probably was in show business
when there was such a business
and probably
“His Sound is Sacred” — a poem by Michael L. Newell
he blows a mighty sound
lifts every roof within hearing skyward
lilts and sets every foot dancing
“Homage (to Joe Albany)” — a poem by Anggo Genorga
And a daughter is not enough or a son
or be a couple with someone who would stick thru all the shit
or the idea of a family
and god or the belief to a higher being is not enough.
The cheap girls and empty sex are always there but never
“Bebop Enlightenment” — a poem by Freddington
The sightless pianist,
Presents the information,
The ideas,
Ornate and complex,
yet always grounded in logic,
The practical applications
of a mountain of details,
and the harmony hidden
“Bicycled Dusks Garaged” — a poem by dan smith
Snow & Ridge our rock n roll Mecca.
The Tastee Shoppe jukebox our holy of holies
best for miles around was our Kaaba
where Elmore James’s Dust My Broom
sent shock waves through my hormone addled brain
& Night Train by Rusty Bryant & his Carolyn Club orchestra
was a bump & grind fantasy of rockin’ & rollin’ ecstasy.
Poems by Roger Singer and Michael L. Newell
a girl dances alone in a room
to an old blues tune sung
on a boom box by Mance Lipscomb
she whirls leaps and floats
on her toes with
“The Boy Who Plays” — a poem by Gannon Daniels
At the piano
his two hands pump fingers
wide in unison
one hand does one thing
the other another
his eyes fixed on the sheet
music sheathed in
“Toots Thielemans” — a poem by Roger Singer
An open free reed.
The winds of blues under
Paris lights. Crystal rain.
Wool overcoats and hats.
Long night highways.
“With Us Yet” — a poem by Susandale
Theirs’ was a kind of mediation between then and now
No, it was a meditation on their only freedom: the deliverance of their music
No, no: a melding. One musician calling out: another answering.
Or maybe, a metaphor for the chorus of life
The way Lady-Day lamented the brief glory of
