poetry
Jazz & Poetry
(John’s last known poem, 6 July 2018 – Jazzman John Clarke)
If I say it once I say it twice
jazz is the music of poetry
poetry is the jazz of life
jazz is the music of poetry
poetry is the jazz of life
Not on their own but each
uniquely combined
yet both possess individual appeal
texture taste & flavour
for each & every one of us
to appreciate & gladly joyously savour
Just as handy tools on their own
don’t quite complete the job
once they combine like hammer & chisel
or saw & digger life suddenly becomes
so much more enjoyable less stressful
and oh so much darn well easier
Jazz is pure eventful sound
a merry-go-round that appeals to the ears
whilst poetry so often rings true
all the way down the years
jazz & poetry blended together
design & make for a perfect marriage recipe
just don’t blame me if you happen to miss
their unmissable unique combination
Oh and by the way come on now
that’s the reason I am labelled
and known as ‘Jazzman John’
International
(from Deconstructions – Joshua Calladine-Jones)
It was amazing. Three days action. Discussing Der Proceß.
There was speaking pandas with special topics:
how to race unicorns, how to do it in public.
We were play a little football match, unformed winds
blowing from vents. Our turnover rised up by fifty-percent.
They want us, exactly me. I’m totally exciting.
Maybe for me I will create some point of total reduction,
a tourniquet for international meetings.
Maybe next time I would like to explain.
Phantom
(from last poems? – Brendan Cleary)
some might say
I’ve just made you up
for the hell of it
but I know better
& here we are right now
in the gardens
a blanket laid out
another bottle
ready to go
I promise this
as you lay back
head in my lap
tell of a place
you first dreamed me
a place you say
you’ve now forgotten
Taking her bag to be mended
(from every robin i never quite saw – Sonya Smith)
The leatherman is a stranger
yet he thinks I look like someone
from a Canadian drama. It has an elk.
But I’m thinking of bears. Aurora, trucks
I ought to need. Goats, bighorn sheep,
a pack of dogs to deal with.
A canoe, in case. Icefields and thick walls,
satellite internet, them wishing they all could
reach me. Long underwear.
Hours and hours gathered around. Blankets.
A bedroom in the eaves for the kid to re-enact
film stills; dawn light on her face
playing on repeat to replace the leaving.
Peak, lake, waterfall; antidotes to loss.
Wild Boars
(Christopher Horton)
What we come to believe is what we want to believe
when the streets are paused to a standstill,
the surrounding hills our only retreat. For me,
the snapping of beech, the stirring of foliage,
was more real than the light that shone,
late afternoon, across from Marriage Wood.
When the two of them ran, we thought they were dogs
at first from the sound of their movement alone.
How quickly they made their way, one behind the other,
a maverick convoy of muscle and flesh
passing steadfastly to a destination only they knew.
Through the cover of branches, nothing was certain.
I could swear there was the lowering of bird song
and the sudden glint of an eye as they gathered pace,
surging uphill where no way seemed possible.
Still at that point of half believing they were dogs,
we waited patiently for their owner walking behind,
for a call at least. In the moments afterwards, the birds
regained their confidence but no voice was heard.
The Painted Gate
(from Wasted Rainbow – Caleb Parkin)
Anal sex, he says, is
inherently traumatic.
Then I say, and he parrots,
physiologically, as I fiddle
with the silver ring on my finger,
pick at the chair’s 1970s stitching.
Picture us from above.
Notice on these regulation
green walls, a single painting:
a garden gate, subsumed
by foliage. Observe the bristle
of its thorns, the bright red
syllables among its roses.
When I Read Diagnostic under CONFIDENTIAL
(from Being Called Normal – Sarah Shapiro)
I think it’s related to esoteric mystical knowledge
like predicting rain from moisture in moss
or life through the aleph bet of gematria
should you wear a raincoat in this new
world of extreme weather but the word
is just a fancy way to say test
say people spent their careers devising methods
to organize minds on a bell curve
what is the etymology of evaluation
now that’s a better word all about worth
about value dependent on people’s subjectivity
to get it going and together diagnostic
and evaluation are the appraisal and catalog
so what’s your price.
Despite my best intentions
(from self-portrait in blue jacket – Mark Wynne)
despite my best intentions
my apartment is overflowing with junk
the refrigerator has been empty for three days…
from the outside looking in
there is nothing to complain about
except that I wanted everything to be completely different…
not a head double-filled with trash
knocking down sets & sucking on beef noodles
I’ve spent my whole life in this violent argument
with myself… each day is misheard
and full of wrong turns
a two-bit porno with the last reel always missing
and I can no longer tell the difference
between direct & mediated experiences
& have no impulse to make the distinction
Tangier
(from all it would take – marc swan)
‘Tangier is one of the few places left in the world where, so long
as you don’t proceed to robbery, violence, or some form of crude,
antisocial behavior, you can do exactly what you want.’
William S. Burroughs
When I say Tangier,
a small bell rings;
I hear a call to prayer
in language unknown to me,
think of Burroughs,
Kerouac, Ginsberg,
Corso, Ferlinghetti—
peripatetic Beats
who frequented those
dusty streets, narrow
alleyways, crowded
thoroughfares
slipping into the mix,
doing what they wanted to do,
no permission asked,
no red tape,
just getting there
was all it would take.
Analytics
(from Live Ones – Sadie McCarney)
Maybe the pigeons, manic
overeaters, peck too much
at their Pollock of used gum.
Maybe we try too hard to break
ancient gossip into gears and ions (something tangible) the way
off-white LED backlights dissect
the progress of the coming train.
If we need to know which train
arrives, it’s because the half-
light spurs us to separate fable
from witnessed fact. We need
data to file under Arguments
Against, charts to map a history
thick with theory: midges born
from rotten meat, gunpowder
in the elixir of life. We need
to be certain of people, of poems,
of sundry uncertain things. But
the pigeons peck. The half-light
beckons. That train is a silver question.
Flat One, 6am
(from Where, the Mile End – Julie Morrissy)
do those moments belong
to someplace else somebody else
a giggle I don’t recognize
a dance I’ve never seen
skin against a door
a split second stirred
half thoughts
half words
half smiles
hang in air I can’t touch
air within––
cool blue surrounds a kitchen counter
at unexpected corners, my eyes cry
the sting of smooth leather
that counter
that counter
asserts itself, resolute
a boat in a basement
the roll and pitch of bodies
some days I turn the corner
at Bathurst and Ulster, fall flat on my knees
palms smack sidewalk
pop