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An assortment of Jazz Apreciation Month Posters. |
It has come to my attention that not
only is April National Poetry Month,
but, at least since 2001 it is also Jazz Appreciation Month (JAM) which is marked by a music festival sponsored by the Smithsonian National Museum of American
History and including special events
and programs sponsored by schools, local government arts councils, and other organizations. The idea was
the brain child of John Edward Hasse, PhD, curator of the
museum and fittingly initially funded
by a grant from the Ella Fitzgerald Charitable Foundation.
Jazz and modern American poetry grew up together in the 20th Century—artistic
kissing cousins each enabling
and encouraging the other in ways both overt and subtle. They can comfortably share a month long
appreciation.
It began, as so much rich American
culture did during the legendary Harlem Renaissance. Many poets including Langston Hughes captured the rhythms
and sounds of the smoky clubs and dance halls along with an exuberant
life style that went along with it.
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Langston Hughes by Winold Riess |
The Weary Blues
Droning a
drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back
and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro
play.
Down on Lenox
Avenue the other night
By the pale
dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy
sway. . . .
He did a lazy
sway. . . .
To the tune o’
those Weary Blues.
With his ebony
hands on each ivory key
He made that
poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and
fro on his rickety stool
He played that
sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a
black man’s soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song
voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that
Negro sing, that old piano moan—
“Ain’t got
nobody in all this world,
Ain’t got
nobody but ma self.
I’s gwine to
quit ma frownin’
And put ma troubles
on the shelf.”
Thump, thump,
thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few
chords then he sang some more—
“I got the
Weary Blues
And I can’t be
satisfied.
Got the Weary
Blues
And can’t be
satisfied—
I ain’t happy
no mo’
And I wish that
I had died.”
And far into
the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went
out and so did the moon.
The singer
stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary
Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a
rock or a man that’s dead.
—Langston Hughes
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From jazz poem to jazz cantata--composer Herbert Chappell used Vachel Lindsay's verse. |
Soon White cats were
catching the bug like Vachel Lindsey who had once kindly
encouraged young Hughes.
The Daniel Jazz
Inscribed to Isadora Bennett
Let the singer train the audience to roar like lions, and to join in the
refrain:—“Go chain the lions down,” before he begins to lead them in this
jazz.
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Beginning with a strain of
Dixie.
Darius the Mede was a king and a wonder.
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His eye was proud, and his voice
was thunder.
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He kept bad lions in a monstrous
den.
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He fed up the lions on Christian
men.
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With a touch of Alexander’s
ragtime band.
Daniel was the chief hired man of the land.
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He stirred up the jazz in the
palace band.
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He whitewashed the cellar. He
shovelled in the coal.
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And Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord
save my soul.”
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Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord save
my soul.”
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Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord save
my soul.”
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Daniel was the butler, swagger
and swell.
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He ran up stairs. He answered the
bell.
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And he would let in
whoever came a-calling:—
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Saints so holy, scamps so
appalling.
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“Old man Ahab leaves his card.
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Elisha and the bears are
a-waiting in the yard.
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Here comes Pharo and his snakes
a-calling.
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Here comes Cain and his wife
a-calling—
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Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego
for tea.
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Here comes Jonah and the whale,
and the sea.
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Here comes St. Peter and his
fishing pole.
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Here comes Judas and his silver
a-calling.
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Here comes old Beelzebub
a-calling.”
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And Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord
save my soul.”
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Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord save
my soul.”
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Daniel kept a-praying:—“Lord save
my soul.”
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His sweetheart and his mother
were Christian and meek.
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They washed and ironed for Darius
every week.
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One Thursday he met them at the
door:—
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Paid them as usual, but acted
sore.
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He said:—“Your Daniel is a dead
little pigeon.
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He’s a good hard worker, but he
talks religion.”
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And he showed them Daniel in the
lion’s cage.
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Daniel standing quietly, the
lions in a rage.
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His good old mother cried:—
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“Lord save him.”
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And Daniel’s tender sweetheart
cried:—
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“Lord save him.”
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And she was a golden lily in the
dew.
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And she was as sweet as an apple
on the tree.
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And she was as fine as a melon in
the corn-field,
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Gliding and lovely as a ship on
the sea,
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Gliding and lovely as a ship on
the sea.
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And she prayed to the Lord:—
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“Send Gabriel. Send
Gabriel.”
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King Darius said to the lions:—
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“Bite Daniel. Bite Daniel.
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Bite him. Bite him. Bite him.”
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Here the audience roars with
the leader.
Thus roared the lions:—
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“We want Daniel, Daniel, Daniel,
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We want Daniel, Daniel, Daniel.
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Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
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Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”
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And Daniel did not frown,
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Daniel did not cry.
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He kept on looking at the sky.
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And the Lord said to Gabriel:—
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The audience sings this with the
leader, to the old negro tune.
“Go chain the lions down,
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Go chain the lions down.
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Go chain the lions down.
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Go chain the lions down.”
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And Gabriel chained the lions,
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And Gabriel chained the lions,
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And Gabriel chained the lions,
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And Daniel got out of the den,
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And Daniel got out of the den,
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And Daniel got out of the den.
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And Darius said:—“You’re a
Christian child,
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Darius said:—“You’re a Christian
child,
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Darius said:—“You’re a Christian
child,”
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And gave him his job again,
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And gave him his job again,
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And gave him his job again
—Vachel Lindsay
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Archibald John Motley, Jr.'s Nighylife. |
Lindsay’s fellow Illinois bard Carl Sandburg, a guitar player and singer himself, also got into the scene in several poems.
Jazz Fantasia
Drum
on your drums, batter on your banjoes, sob on the long cool winding saxophones.
Go to it, O jazzmen.
Sling
your knuckles on the bottoms of the happy tin pans, let your trombones ooze,
and go hushahusha-hush with the slippery sand-paper.
Moan
like an autumn wind high in the lonesome tree-tops, moan soft like you wanted
somebody terrible, cry like a racing car slipping away from a motorcycle cop,
bang-bang! you jazzmen, bang altogether drums, traps, banjoes, horns, tin
cans—make two people fight on the top of a stairway and scratch each other’s
eyes in a clinch tumbling down the stairs.
Can
the rough stuff … now a Mississippi steamboat pushes up the night river with a
hoo-hoo-hoo-oo … and the green lanterns calling to the high soft stars … a red
moon rides on the humps of the low river hills … go to it, O jazzmen.
—Carl Sandburg
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Bird--Charlie Parker Bebop king. |
Post-World War II America ushered in
the eras of bebop and beatniks—a whole new generation
grooving in whole news ways. Take Jack Kerouac’s muse on the passing of a seminal reed man.
Charley Parker
Charlie Parker looked like Buddha
Charlie Parker, who recently died
Laughing at a juggler on the TV
After weeks of strain and sickness,
Was called the Perfect Musician.
And his expression on his face
Was as calm, beautiful, and
profound
As the image of the Buddha
Represented in the East, the lidded
eyes
The expression that says “All Is
Well”
This was what Charlie Parker
Said when he played, All is Well.
You had the feeling of
early-in-the-morning
Like a hermit’s joy, or
Like the perfect cry of some wild
gang
At a jam session,
“Wail, Wop”
Charlie burst his lungs to reach
the speed
Of what the speedsters wanted
And what they wanted
Was his eternal Slowdown
—Jack Kerouac
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Jayne Cortez, who was the widow of Ornnett Coleman died in 2012. She often read and performed with her band, an electro-funk modern jazz group called the Firespitters. | |
Then there is Jayne Cortez whose beat
infused work as a poet, performance
artist, feminist, and activist continued to flourish in the post-beat era. She shows
that you don’t have to mention jazz or even music—the very words percolate with riffs
and improvisations complete with
spaces for the horn and slap bass solos…
I Am New York City
i
am new york city
here is my brain of hot sauce
my tobacco teeth my
mattress of bedbug tongue
legs aparthand on chin
war on the roofinsults
pointed fingerspushcarts
my contraceptives all
look
at my pelvis blushing
i am new york city of blood
police and fried pies
i rub my docks red with grenadine
and jelly madness in a flow of tokay
my huge skull of pigeons
my seance of peeping toms
my plaited ovaries excuse me
this is my grime my thigh of
steelspoons and toothpicks
i imitate no one
i am new york city
of the brown spit and soft tomatoes
give me my confetti of flesh
my marquee of false nipples
my sideshow of open beaks
in my nose of soot
in my ox bled eyes
in my ear of Saturday night specials
i eat ha ha hee hee and ho ho
i am new york city
never change never sleep never melt
my shoes are incognito
cadavers grow from my goatee
look i sparkle with shit with wishbones
my nickname is glue-me
take my face of stink bombs
my star spangled banner of hot dogs
take my beer can junta
my reptilian ass of footprints
and approach me through life
approach me through death
approach me through my widow’s peak
through my split ends my
asthmatic laughapproach me
through my wash rag
half anklehalf elbow
massage me with your camphor tears
salute the patina and concrete
of my rat tail wig
face upface downpiss
into the bite of our handshake
i am new york city
my skillet-head friend
my fat-bellied comrade
citizens
break wind with me
—Jayne Cortez
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The release of the last surviving Scottsboro boy, Clarence Noris, on the orders of Alabama governor George Wallace in 1976 inspired a poem by Everett Hoagland. |
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And finally one
from an old poet/friend I have never met but long admired, Everett Hoagland who
found jazz riffs in a newspaper clipping with whiffs of an old
injustice in his recent collection The Music and Other Selected Poems.
The Last Scottsboro “Boy”
You might have thought justice
was a jive, cracked tune,
sung with a forked tongue,
like the Liberty Bell’s.
But you held life
like a steel guitar, your jail cell
a twelve-bar blues, and strummed it:
All
people should be free.
In
Alabama, the governor’s
pardon, Wallace gives you some skin.
His representative and Miss Belle
try to ring Liberty, but
it’s Alabama
and you know it’s a blues tune:
Clarence
Norris, aged 63.
I
have no hate;
I
like all people.
All
people should be
free. I wish those other boys
were
around to
see…
—Everett
Hoagland
1976
From The
Music and Other Selected Poems by Everett Hoagland, North Star Nova
Press. Copyright Everett Hoagland, 2015.
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