I use this page to post a variety of pieces, both those just out of the sluice, and older pieces that feel fresh to me at the moment. I generally keep them up for a month, or a few at the most.
Look for new poems (and more) at the start of each month.
Written to a Young Jazz Quintet (new in June)
Written to a Student Tentet at California Jazz Conservatory (new in June)
Deck the Posthumanist Halls (new in December)
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For June I’m offering a couple of ekphrastic pieces written while listening to live jazz at the California Jazz Conservatory. This time the best ones were descriptive rather than abstract. Here’s the first one.
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Written to a Young Jazz Quintet, Berkeley, CA, May 13, 2023
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the guitarist grimaces
……….mouthing words that
………………..aren’t there
……….playing like an angel
the bassist lanks
……….their way across
………………..the universe
……….on a single fretboard
the drummer flails
……….and storms
………………..then glides
……….a gentle rain
the alto lives inside his sax
……….keys play his fingers
………………..and the neck the reed
……….draw his breath
& the tenor most still
……….mystery of blinking eyes
………………..blows an absolute
……….miracle
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Here’s another ekphrastic that leaked out of a jazz concert at the California Jazz Conservatory. Yay!
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Written to a Student Tentet at California Jazz Conservatory, Berkeley, CA, May 13, 2023
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And the child pipes
into the song
because music of course
who could help?
— peep — beep —
and the child
wants to dance
squirming in dad’s arms
— Let her dance!
because what else
…— peep —
…………— woooo —
…down the scales
and the child
slides with it
there go those hands
…— woooo —
into the rise
rise child rise
because music
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Here’s a sculpted piece about rain and warfare that I wrote at a piano recital recently. Since I can’t figure out how to format sculpted pieces in this silly wordpress thingy, I’ve scanned and pasted the pages in below. The probably read better if you click on each one to see the full size (then hit the back button to return to the page).
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The Bay Area lost a much-loved foundation-rock poet on March 6, Jeanne Lupton. I only tend to write memorial pieces if one wants to leak out. This one wanted to leak out.
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TANKA QUEEN
for Jeannie Lupton: rest peacefully, woman
–to the tune of some song–
If your mind ain’t all it could be now
This girl will make it fine
If your heart could use a boost or two
Just give her five lines
She’s the gypsy, the tanka queen
Silence before she starts
She’s the gypsy, she’s guaranteed
To give you a younger heart
Give her the room and then the floor
Leave your self behind
You may cry and you may roar
Her song will fill your mind
She’s the gypsy, the tanka queen
Silence before she starts
She’s the gypsy, she’s guaranteed
To gently take your soul apart so that you can see how it works then carefully put it back together
Gather your wits and hold on fast
Your mind must learn to roam
Just as the gypsy queen must do
You’re gonna hit the road
Her work is done and there you are
More alive than when you came
More you than you have been before
And maybe even sane
She’s the gypsy, the tanka queen
Silence before she starts
She’s the gypsy, she’s guaranteed
To gently take your heart and mind and soul apart so that you can see how lovely they are then with great care put them back together
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I’ve recently taken an interest in posthumanism—not the whole transhuman-can’t-wait-to-be-part-cyborg thing but the whole who-the-fuck-were-these-humanists-to-claim-that-people-are-superior-to-other-forms-of-life-and-matter-for-that-matter-and-cursed-the-planet-with-the-catastrophic-hubris-of-the-individual thing. That kind of posthumanism. So here’s a little holiday cheer.
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DECK THE POSTHUMANIST HALLS
♫
‘Tis the season to re-peal
Tra la loo li lay, ho ho hee hay
Everything we think is re-al
Foe fee fee fuh fuh, yippie-kai-ay
Don we now our feral souls
Pee pee pee, poo poo poo, play play play
For the lip-smacking carousals
Yum yum nudie day, hooray yay yay!
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Though I’ve not been posting since my old WordPress theme broke, here’s a new poem anyway for November 2022. Hope to have everything back in order come the new year.
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APOCALYPSE
The month of rotting pumpkins is upon us.
We don our jackets, lose our keys
while smoke waits at the horizon,
wanting in. How many knocks at the door do we need
before we just leave it open, asking only
to be asked? Is it too much to ask for? The engines
rev, controlled explosions exploding in the avenue
as we treat ourselves to tricks and tell ourselves
our souls are in the wings. They say the future
is in our hands but they don’t say what they mean by “hands”.
What hands? What year? The eventide comes in
belying the neap as dark water rises in our throat
and wind howls in the rafters, Get me! Get me!
troubling cats and the oil index. Meanwhile
stars burn or so they say and deep earth rumbles,
spewing magma and archaea as cities shine
and the axis takes another turn in the night.
Our gourds may be failing, all rue to that,
but if we step out of ourselves for a minute we might recall
without our hands the seeds will plant themselves.
Let’s dance and sing, at least for tonight. It’s what we do best.
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