February 7, 2019 by petrujviljoen
piano, bass and drum, adrift, afloat;
a melody, spoken softly – chest notes –
the sax, unable to hold back, screamed. High
enough to wake the dead, the still poet
the cat, cool, dons his sunglasses, steps up
to the double bass, starts twanging Be-Bob.
Gillespie’s ghost hovers in the blue haze.
We listen, passing spliffs rolled from the cob*
*Called Malawi Gold, from that country, packed tightly, decoratively, in dried leaves of the mealie plant.
A note? A set? Which shut us up amid
laughter and chit-chat-blah so, God forbid,
we should miss the riff – sound, falling like light
on not only the ear, but the whole grid
jazz, most democratic of all music!
The solo, that impulsive runic,
plays out, picked up by another, plays out
taken up with sound – a different rubic
jazz, nothing but a schooled intuition
guessing – no, no grappling for an in.
The din of the drum rolls in rhythms
to the sonic soar of the violin
the drum scatters under the keening sax
honty tonk piano repeats the pax
with the bass guitar, sliding to nowhere
who talks of rescue? No paying no tax.
whisky, a double tot, in my coffee
wind and ganja in my hair – ain’t funny
seeing the dude, the man, sat me down,
expectin’ – but I left him. Me harpy
I was inspired by Jim Feeny’s jazz notes and hope I did the idea justice.
More rubaiyat for the form poetry month of the Persian form, the Ruba’i (singular) or Rubaiyat (plural). Mine’s a string of singular quatrains. I gave up on the iambic pentameter – one does when one does jazz – but hope for a sort of rhythm (and insight).
I’ll link to Dverse’s Open Link Night and to the form poetry’s site on invitation. Already have two up.