394

394

ART TATUM : The Man I Love

Man is man's own oblast. A good blaze now :

Our feather wrinkles on the tine.

Art's hand bent in its own image.

Who knows what sloppy hearts pale

Beyond the lightschirm in the auditorium?

Particles glance at the threshold,

The whole is bathed in sparks, and nothing,

Oh, nothing more is given off.

He is a fine figurer, casts arpeggi between

Open chords, as to show their composition.

At the back of the universe,

In a darkening well of fluent gas and stars,

There may be the body

And the thought and the eye and hand

Of a man loved, a figure loved, of a name

Spoken softly. Of an understanding given

And of a brusque action,

Beyond which no word moved.

We pass back into our years, watching often

As night falls, particular

In our observation, carrying up a limb here,

A notion there, into the doorway over us :

A doorway through which—

Watching, listening—we then carefully step.

393

393

DUKE ELLINGTON : Ko Ko

In the rain before the Regent Hotel

There was a collision and a woman

Was thrown through the windshield

Of her sedan.

The rain went over

The body and the wind lifted the hair.

“Je ne sais rien, rien, rien!”

Lay in the tub and ran

Your hand down the folded curtain.

Sündenfall. Sündflower. In the field,

Blunt, black seedhead,

Bobbing in the drizzle.

A porter dragged her body through

The doors, staining the lobby carpet

With blood, and the door closed on

The legs and the arm fell.

He called and called,

And then there was an ambulance.

The stalk strain and the head loll,

The heavy germstem.

A photographer from the black door

Of the elevator ran, sang ; dumb and

At his knees.

In the end they found

She was one of someone's girls.

392

392

ALBANE GELLÉ : Si je suis de ce monde

Keeping well most of the time after the seasonal griefs the parties the refrains sung and danced and our lack of levity when among our friends the reunions the laughter all of us on our feet.

Keeping in our sight predators eaters of roses and of mornings at the boundaries of the great debates without capitulation or candour palms open or fists clenched and chuntering and not sleeping on our feet.

391

391

THOMAS VINAU : Le caillou

Let's not fall down now. I'll grow inside of you.

I'll swim. Don't leave me alone with your skin's

Saccharine. The rock burns my throat. I do you

Harm. I bring you down. You need me to. We

Walk from one edge of the night to the other. We

Wait. We smoke the rock. There is lightning

In our tremors. Cold flares, then burning.

Empty roads. We walk from one end to the other.

The universe is empty. Our eyes are needleheads.

The town is all ours. Lay down in the road.

Sit down close to me. Look at my skin. You'd

Think it did not belong to me. I'll give it to you.

Give you my face. Give you my shoes. Transform

Into marble. Into a hollow. Into refuse. The night

Has no end. It has sheer edges. It has filaments

On which we leave little morcels of our flesh.

See, the night lasts. The asphalt is like foam.

It's like carpet. And your hair! It seems to

Take flight. Now, it floats around you. I want to

Vomit. Then lick the white skin of your thighs.

Then vomit once again. You laugh. You fall down.

Your nostril is immense. My insides sink. Your

Red cheeks. The cold stone. The moon is a

Covered pool. A blue basin, electric. No vest

Bothering me. No cold tiling. No excess fat.

We swim the surface of a great emptiness. Your

Red cheeks. The cold moon. You can lean on me.

I'd have this moment endure, and the plate

Glass break, and break.

390

390

MAX ROACH : Garvey's Ghost

A dream in winter

That the coal plant slid

Into the copper water

And the stacks shuddered

Down in their skins,

And the smoke a body

In the air shimmered and fell to the bed,

And smoke and smoke a cigarette

With a banana daiquiri

In the other hand, at the big window

Of the ambassador's house

With his wife strung out in lights

Touching you on the arm—

Sha sha badum.

It only 's a collapse

When the crimson of one's real blood

Falls from gashed harm.

Ach! Diplomatic failure at the bar.

Mein Herr and I halted

Our weary parlance &tc. The waiter

Made me a solemn request.

I went round behind and helped him

With trays of seafood

He was taking from a walk-in fridge.

Clarissa in her little dress fell backward

Into the tub with the ice

And bottles of champagne. Her forehead

Struck the brass bathtap,

And on the way back to our Benz, her

Cheekstain began to turn

The colours of a growing storm.

In our place the rain came,

The rain and all the factory went down

Into the water, blew up

In shapes of foam of caramel and brown.

389

389

DUKE ELLINGTON : Warm Valley

You held us in your venerable hand :

Mein Herz zog, mein lieber Herzog.

You left a glass of water in the door,

And when they opened it would spill,

And the droplets of the water would

From articulations of your hand fall,

And your generations from the grand

Pour and pour and pour and pour.

The boat turned south

Where the rivers met,

And mosses hung like straggled cloud

From the liveoak and cypress trees.

I drank rum in the morning and went

Into the water to retrieve a suitcase

Sodden with rivergreen, full of slacks,

Shirts and socks and books in Greek.

I ran my finger along the buckling

Lines, paragraph to paragraph, over

The damp wrinkles and bleared type,

Fires that lay

Still burning under the mountains,

Under the altars of fine alabaster.

In the afternoon the wind shook leaves

Down over my sleep. A plane went over

Trailing blue and yellow smoke.

I woke and found my glass in the door.

388

388

CHARLIE PARKER : Out of Nowhere

The curtain rises on a rocky coastline

And a swelling tide. At the headland

Gulls wheel in great loose clouds.

There is a man in a mustard fedora

Walking the shore,

With a bunch of flowers in his hand.

The wind blows out his overcoat

And the wind blows out a veil

Of thoughts, and the wind lifts brine

From the ocean and throws it over

The houses and the seawall.

A dark comes down and the scene

Shifts, quietly, and the curtains fall.

A man, another man, or the same,

Draws honey-liquid from a spoon,

His shirtsleeve from the wrist over the elbow,

And a length of rubber hose about.

The same man in all obscurity

Of who is who and does what and how,

Drawing honey into a blinking sleep.

A cadence murmurs in the darkness,

Rising softly and brightly from the deep :

A slow rumour, slow, breaks mightily

The world and its darker harness,

Breaks the last barrier—for this man, shame—

Making of him a hunger, only living

To be assuaged. Les flambeaux vacillent,

A travers la fête confuse. Life a movement

Out of nowhere, into nothing.

He puts the flowers on the nightstand.

387

387

DUKE ELLINGTON : The Mooche

Smoke pours from, of Tiger-God, mouth.

Fire winding through plantation,

Over river and the rainsoaked hills. Om.

The water seethes with reptiles.

There is a temple behind Stone Mountain

Where they lay the bodies in a trough.

“Darling you must pledge yourself to me.

Darling you must belong to me entire.

I have a sort of fever coming on again.”

Beaa! More light! More smoke!

Wheel out the harlequin. Light!

“They dance willy-nilly from their ropes.

Darling they dancy silly from their rope.”

A water buffalo rolls into the dirty water,

Schauming vigourously of its pale blood,

Desparate to breathe, eyes gone astray.

None of this will amount to any good.

“The lease is out, signor. We must depart,

If we are to make the first boat tomorrow.

La signora will need to come with us, certo.”

Wha wha baba do doop de—ah!

Break the cage and let him fly!

He was a pupa, and we find him a Gestalt.

And some fool said “we all wear masks”?

He, no. He is as blithe and naked as the day.

386

386

THELONIOUS MONK : Pannonica

Nica, moth's-child,

Wed a Baron

Who strove in 1942 against Vichy ;

Herself worked

In Free France for de Gaulle.

Met Monk

At the Salon and may

Have strayed

Into his blind arms.

Ate it when

Busted with him for tea. Oh, baby.

Light, please,

And we will sure unbuild the dame.

Bird brothe his last in her hotel suite!

The light broke

Out of Bird, dangerously, flammably,

Over the sheets,

At the Stanhope rooms.

Little else ever

Spoke. Cigarettes and silent dreams.

We took the streetcar in San Francisco

And saw Spencer Tracy as a detective,

All afternoon I was drunk as hell.

There was a flash of lightning

And the bay went blue and I thought

I saw the white body of a whale.

You held my arm.

At night there was more brandy

And the soft motion of hands, soft,

Motion of hands over a glockenspiel.

385

385

BUD POWELL : Tea for Two (take 6)

Bud lifts the fallboard

And shakes out his suit sleeves.

A greyed log punches in and the air swells

Around it and the fire engorges and rises

In a curtain about the ashen wood, and all

Hangs for one moment in a sound that is

Like the going-under of a tremendous ship—

And—

Bum,

Bum. Ray Brown,

Ladies and gentlemen!

And—

Shadabadebelaresebequemelevebrip—

The curtain of flame parts and figures in light

Dance in the movement of the air in the grate.

Earl Rudolph is building something now :

Somewhere in the joint a micstand goes down,

As if by sheer force—hit it, Bud, hit it! Tight!—

And—

Whooee! Cinders go up, shaking, over

The water where a steamer is passing.

The streets are dark. Mon amour,

Come back with me. Je t'assure,

We'll drink a glass, Je vais t'aimer

And I'll take you home. Pour toujours.

The snare hisses like leaves. Old Buddy,

My love is coming down, I am lonely,

All is ending, season and year and life too :

I am living in the smoke of Jim Beam

And in the dull grey sea-smoke of myself.

Tempo, tempo, tempo.

The fire evacuates. He has cigarette ash

On the lap of his pants. “You boys git up.

I'm ready, and first I will have another.”

384

384

RACHMANINOFF : Op. 18, Moderato

First, only Klaviernotes—

Shades out of a depth of silent water:

Gold! Black.

Blue! Black.

Crimson! Black.

Gold/blue/brown/grey! B-b-l- Lack!

Cascade! -ade -ade -ade -!

YVIBYVROYRGIBB IGBIGBBIYVIBBIVO

Strings! Magma!

ROYGBIVROGYVBI YGBVYGBIVRIVRO GYVIBBIYVIBBIVRG BIVRROYGBIVRVR

Staggering higher—murmering—

Light and steam—

Mount, burgeoning lighthead!—

Split! Smelt! Ah! Crescendo—ah!

Gentle fall of burnt paper. The umbrella,

Shading us from the stark

Lamplight, is singed. A flame still plays

At the hem. Dovecalls from the trees.

Now the horns begin.

Grandfather in a suede waiscoat

Plays Joplin in a green spotlight.

He has taken his shoes off, ma foi!

Great gold antlers adorn his temples.

The colourwheel spins. The daywheel spins.

Moonshine. Loveshine.

We have our hats and coats on,

And are ready to leave, but mother is still

Upstairs in the master bedroom, fast asleep.

My sister goes back out into the garden.

It is night again.

That is how the piano concerto begins.

383

383

O ma fleurette africaine,

What flower falls from your hands?

O ma danseuse africaine,

What lightwave breaks at your foot?

O folle, O chaotique—

You move among your brothers

And among the husbands

Of your sisters, as the grass moved

In the doorway

Of the house where you were born.

What fire strode down

That cool morning, from the sky?

What rough element dove there,

What jittering mercury?

Your mother bore you dancing :

Our of her death, bore you, dancing.

Your body is her body, fleurette.

Your breasts glisten in the firelight.