Improvijazzation Nation poetry - Issue # 75
An ANNOUNCEMENT about IMPROVIJAZZATION NATION!!! I've been tagged as a replacement for someone (over) in Iraq... I'll be leaving (sometime) in late December or early January!!! For that reason - please SUSPEND ALL SUBMISSIONS to us... but, DO NOT "write us off"!!! I'll be back sometime early summer 2006, & will notify all of you when we're able to take your submissions again! Please SPREAD THE WORD to folks you know who send us review material, too... I will NOT BE REVIEWING material until after I get back in summer, 2006!!!!
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We were especially happy to receive the following 8 poems from our most poetic friend, Golda Solomon. As you'll see, she "speaks from the soul" - THANKS, Golda!
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Always steps ahead. Dressed to kill.
Miles blows colored dissonance this festival day
Opaque balloon pants in billowy royal hues
Like pieces of eight woven with gold thread
Miles blows colored dissonance this festival day
Pirate ship stage, masts of electrical equipment
Like pieces of eight woven with gold thread
Sound buffeting sheer white sails
Pirate ship stage, masts of electrical equipment
Vast sea of audience held captive
Sound buffeting sheer white sails
We willingly walk the plank
Vast sea of audience held captive
His sword ready to smite us
We willingly walk the plank
Late afternoon shadows - brush strokes on this jazz galleon
His sword ready to smite us
Glints of mischievous sheen on his chocolate locks
Late afternoon shadows - brush strokes on this jazz galleon
He blows directly into the speakers
Glints of mischievous sheen on his chocolate locks
Strutting from one black monolith to the other
He blows directly into the speakers
McLaughlin's guitar shocks Miles
Strutting from one black monolith to the other
Mutiny thru an electrical storm
McLaughlin's guitar shocks Miles.
He stays with Miles, then leads Miles
Mutiny thru an electrical storm
The speakers cackle back obscenities
He stays with Miles, then leads Miles
El Capitan smiles broadly
The speakers cackle back obscenities
Sound waves on ionized dust particles
El Capitan smiles broadly
Keys and modes jump ship
Sound waves on ionized dust particles
Wet notes come spraying out at us
Keys and modes jump ship
Melodies disappear, crackle, curdle
Wet notes come spraying out at us
Captain Hook on trumpet navigates a new course
Melodies disappear, crackle, curdle
This is power forty fathoms deep
Captain Hook on trumpet navigates a new course
Opaque balloon pants in billowy royal hues
This is power forty fathoms deep
Always steps ahead. Dressed to kill.
Golda Solomon@2002 www.jazzjaunts.com . gs@goldajazz.com
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for harlem in the 1960’s
harlem
my day gig
my night hang
sunlight patterns the broad boulevard
at 117th st. a church going woman
blesses me
saxman setting up on his corner
beat up case with a faded lining
readied for nickels and dimes
his chops gone
his shoes shined
pomade slicked nappy grey afro
he nods
we speak without words
he knows i’ll stop and listen later
he’ll play on green dolphin street
without me asking
i’ll drop my loose change
a mangy dog sniffin’
for a pork chop
in a bag at the curb
comes up with a discarded hi top sneaker
chews
growls at the knotted laces
i pass
save your soul storefronts
damn your soul liquor stores
open tremored hands
winos holding pint size brown bags
tastes of cheap booze
it’s never too early for a fix
ashy faces of dead presidents
framed on folded bills buy smack
-2-
exhaust fumes darken the air
uptown and downtown busses
tout life on elsewhere avenues
a lost yellow cab
stops at a light
engine revving and ready
i have my routine
a sense of place
here
i turn a corner
boarded up brownstones
etched brass doorknobs chained shut
a regal past for sale
the blues walks these streets
stalking the next generation
lunchtime i brown bag it
relax on a bench
periphery of mt. Morris park
listen to quiltings of conversations
matriarchs
resting knarled toes
fall and spring i walk
in winter hibernate
eat with teachers who care
any many who do not
i get to know
my territory
i minister to small groups
changing ye’th’s into yes
mowf into mouth
bending vowels, suggesting
alternatives of articulation
spoken currency below 110th st.
-3-
seasoned idioms
dance with
my brooklyn
the south
still at war
with the north
will i wait my turn at the
better pie crust company
take home a sweet potato pie
or buy
a bean pie from a suited x
hawking muhamed speaks
we’re all hungry
for truth
aren’t we
we see
too many truth sayers
assassinated
II
street lights have a different glow
from dusk on
drop me off in harlem rhythm
the theresa’s past its hey day
fidel’s upraised fist
gone
sro’s dot the landscape
international
houses of poverty
white rookies pullin’ the wrong precinct
trigger happy pimple faced cowboys
afraid of the dark
sequinned he/she ho’s
too much makeup
hope for a good night
-4-
musk of maryjane
perfumes garbage
in overfilled cans waiting to be picked up
i hail a black beauty taxi
traffic lights
synchronized
reds and greens
like a flight path
lighting the runway to jazz joints
i land at wells
sounds succulent
golden squares of waffle
siren’s song for syrup
regal crusted breasts
fried chicken
batallions of legs and thighs
night welcomes me back
to my adopted neighborhood
biting this juicy uptown apple
quenches my thirst
scotch turns milk creamy
my uprooted european roots
dig
this hybrid soil
brown arms of jazz
mother
my blues
dark jazz
wails through horns
primal notes
my lost childhood
can’t be found
like a misplaced library book
-5-
only i can
forgive my too early
loss of innocence
the bass
lays it all
down
hungry and thirsty
my freudian dwarfs
i am not snow white
any more
the piano man
plays my story
i’m a snapping
turtle
of desire
other’s expectations
once seemingly important
disappear as the tune ends
Golda Solomon@2005 www.jazzjaunts.com. gs@goldajazz.com
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This is India’s ravaged southeastern coast
This Tamil speaking region far from Munbal
Shy smiles of an old woman
show betel – stained teeth
A barefoot little girl giggles, trails after him
He swoops her up – her first Prince Charming
A safe memory to build on
Young men’s calloused hands
Want to shake his outstretched pumice smoothed ones
No Hindi speaking Bollywood picture house
Movies rare here
Thatched huts – homes – lives – lost
Dead of summer
This peaceful fishing village of 3000
Disfigured landscape
Tsunami caught 71 fathers, sons,
Mothers, sisters, boys, girls in its net
This slow paced vacation retreat
Getaway from a pressured money making industry
This movie idol works among them
Walks the tattered route
More rupees needed
More than a genies three wishes can provide
Debris strewn dreams
Like their fishing nets need mending
Twelve fishermen
Set out in newly repaired boats
This same sea is now tranquil again
The day before Pongal
Harvest festival of southern India has begun
Golda Solomon@2005 www.jazzjaunts.com gs@goldajazz.com
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De Avery De Catur
De midwest comes East
De law teaches – preaches
Columbia, gem of the Ocean
Sweet bites into this soured apple of a city
Genealogy of her family
Travels along for de ride
In Illinois, a black skein in white sheep’s territory
Here her ancestral hair in knitted knots
Knowledge dreds fly off in different directions
Familiar faces live in this metropolis of underground rails
She learns the rites of rights
De fender of the children
She knits and purls
Wool the color of blood
textured in slavery
She is her grandma’s child
Clacking away on crossed needles
Neat rows of advocacy
Stitched truths in a shawl for her mother
Patterns the tapestry of generations
Quiet revolutionary
This De Avery
Golda Solomon@2005 www.jazzjaunts.com gs@goldajazz.com
His hands stuttered those first times he touched her
he and she made from the same dirt. Explored
gently blew away dust
particles from innocent places
Coupling he moaned her name
Lilith my wife, Lilith my wife
… and God looked down and was pleased
No vocabulary of discontent
Glances. Shared shyness
Learning the Garden God had given them
His fingers combed her long shiny tresses
her majestic wings spread, holding him to her
She sang the beginnings of her voice
She wanting to mount him
he insisting she remain beneath
… and God looked down and disapproved
and God looked down and disapproved
She spoke strongly to him
They were of the same dust. She was his
equal. Beneath me always he said
their Garden soiled with harshness
where they once lay content
discord. She flew away
… and God looked down and was angry
and God looked down and was angry
Pride. Dry hacking rage. She could not relent
She’d rather lay and procreate with Fallen Angels
kill her own newborns
She would forever be a She Demon
God issued her fate
her siren song
her forgotten name
never to be mentioned “In The Beginning …”
… and God looked away from her
and God looked away from her
Golda Solomon@2004 www.jazzjaunts.com gs@goldajazz.com
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Harlem (1965)
West to East
Bowlegged mothers, sisters, aunties
Fallen arches, tired, blessed sleep
Only to begin again and again
Nurses and aids, scuffed white shoes
Outline of bunions and corns
Worn down heels, negotiating shifts
Big sisters pulling little sisters by the hand
Tugging at tight braids, pulling up socks
Knees buffed shiny with Jergens
Dispassionate parochial plaids of pleated skirts
"Don't you make me late again for school"
Brothers trying to keep up
Clip-on ties, brigade of navy kites flying up Lenox Ave
Against a sky of light blue shirts
Oversized jackets and long pants
Get two years of wear if you fold the cuffs under
Bits of white fluff clinging to future afros
Book bags slappin' street rhythms against gabardine
Old men, stoop sitting bookends
Milky grey rimmed eyes and alcoholic egos
Early morning pints in communal brown bags
A lost sister joining them, legs splayed
"Hey, gimme a taste man"
Scent of southern politeness
Rancid garbage
Underfed dogs poking into overturned cans
Bunches of fresh mustard, turnip and
Collard greens sold daily from the backs of
Trucks and station wagons "Fresh fish here"
"Those whitey owned markets show us no respect"
Wilted heads of lettuce dreams, days old passing for produce
Middle class high rise condos and coops
Butting against projects and boarded up buildings
Intricate brass doorknobs, remains of another era
Harlem Hospital, Lenox Terrace
History of a people on shelves at a collection called Schomberg
Get clean or high at the "Y"
Glassine packets of white powder
Folded green backs slipped palm to palm
Suited men hawking Muhammed Speaks and bean pies
Belly's full of jazz, chicken and waffles from Wells
Minton's open
Showman's open
Gold Brick open
22 West where high collared preachers conversate
about the 'man', sports, latest politician on the take
"Hey girl, this slice of watermelon must be for one
of those puny pale guys downtown"
116th St. crosstown bus
Changing voices of puberty ranting "the dozens"
"Hey faggot" "Your mama didn't think so last night"
Baptist Church mediates the 5th Avenue divide
Museos Del Barrio, a storefront on Third
Smells of La Marqueta
Bodega beginnings
Park Ave uptown is cheap chic
Clothing hung from high racks
Un-easy truce with the Po-leese
Knight sticks dangling off blue uniformed hips
Cars whizzing down the drive protected by an avenue named Pleasant
Highways and projects named after dead white presidents and generals
Patsy's on First, pizza and old world dining
Kisses on both cheeks, jowls held by pinky ringed men
No Blacks
No Puerto Ricans
No longer safe
"Hey, ja hear, Frank was in the neighborhood"
Sinatra sighting at the Ded-lightful Coffee Shop
Golda Solomon@2003 www.jazzjaunts.com gs@goldajazz.com
I saw Dottie Dodgion play drums
Diminutive Blond haired Big smile
Taking charge Taking charge
Legs splayed apart
A woman on men's turf
A woman on a man's instrument
Ladies don't sit that way
Drummers do.
I should have remembered every detail
Shards of memory Reflections in my mind's mirror
The impact it would have on me
The catskills or the Halfnote
I saw her I saw her
I heard her I heard her
My beginnings of celebrating women in jazz
Women were teachers, not drummers
Women were nurses - not horn players
Women were mothers - no axes, just kitchen knives
Women were piano teachers
Like my Rose Ludivico
I walked up 2 steep flights
A brownstone in Little Italy
Red gravy smells hitting my nostrils, garlic and Bach
Fiercely independent at 10
Saddle shoes scuffing on concrete steps
Now I rattle off names
My sisters in the rhythms of my jazz life
Their names a mantra for young girls
A Who's Who of you can do it
Play their names as I salute them
Play their names Play their names
Cindy Blackman Virginia Mayhew Judi Silvano
Sylvia Cuenca Allison Miller Tessa Souter
Alberta Hunter Cobi Narita Carol Sudhalter
Susie Ibarra Lisa Parrott Maxine Sullivan
Ingrid Jensen Nikki Parrott Miriam Sullivan
Etta Jones Barbara Sfraga Kendra Shank
Sheila Jordan Abbey Lincoln
Golda Solomon@2001 www.jazzjaunts.com gs@goldajazz.com
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The first time I heard Sheila Jordan's voice
Some gay club in the Village
or was Tuesday night gay night
Tiny Tim, his curls, his ukulele
Sheila easing her instrument
Up over and under and onto perfect notes
Gigs haven't changed much
It's still about dues paying and "the man"
Smoke-filled clubs
Vodka on the rocks
2 drops of vermouth only please
What's a nice girl like you doing in this neighborhood
Hey, if anyone gets in your cab
And wants to hear New York jazz,
Bring them here to the Bowery
Or to Hudson near Spring
The Half Note
Then to Wells Uptown
Fried chicken and waffles
Scotch with milk
Sure it's safe
That cavernous Village Gate
Monday was always Latin Nite
But it was the Five Spot
The Five Spot
My weeknite hang
My routine
An after work nap
Dressed and out by midnight
Ratners on 2nd Avenue at 4 a.m.
Work the next A.M. at 8
That last night on the Bowery
The move to St. Mark's Place
Bobby Timmons "dat dared" on the keyboard
Chessboard set up and ready Mal Waldron, checkmate
Musicians, Knights holding court at their round table
Narrow slice of light across the worn floor when
the bathroom door opened and closed
Listenin' to Sir Hanna rattle those ivory's with Bach riffs
The aroma of Chan's rice
Farewell cake for Eric Dolphy
"Later" inscribed in chocolate buttercream script
Mingus' bass plunking commands
-2-
Weekends were for tourists only then
Maybe I'd grab the end of the last set on a
lonely Friday or Saturday
I crocheted a floor length cobalt blue skirt
Listening to Chico Hamilton and Charles Lloyd
Those two notes from Forest Flower still echo
High and true
Cal Newborn's sweet guitar
Sundays walkin' around the Jazz Gallery with Roland
Before he was Rasaan
He knew my laugh
Golda's in the house
Who knew we were witness to a history
We were just out listenin'
Finger poppin' to the sounds we needed like a fix
The Poet Laureate Billy Collins remembers the taste
and price of beer at the Five Spot.
I remember Joe and Iggy Termini
The notes the cash register played
And that little dance Monk did.
Golda Solomon @ 2001 www.jazzjaunts.com. gs@goldajazz.com
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