February 9, 2002
O trumpetman, unswallowed song
your yellow-down bluesound dogface to confound,
sing sweet what you knew aloud,
sing your very funeral shroud-
the death of you, you know?
Known to now.
O saxman written on your reed
history shades of black and awhile,
purr the pregnant, poignant prose and call me home.
purple-rich tone at home and roam
you're ash in the kingdom
rubbed to sooth word-struck wounds
O drummerman solid boatsman mighty armed
steadfast slip over cymbal stream and
scythe in your hand, you can.
back bone of a notion
spine of the time
fertile ground for the sound.
Breathe as the trumpetman breathes.
Blow as the saxman blows.
Beat as the drummerman beats.
--A poem I wrote in college, I should look up the season. I think the instructor (Peter Richards) thought it was about the best that I produced that semester, but to me it seems a bit contrived. The discrepancy between other people's idea of which poems of mine were best and my own is one of the reason I consider myself mostly a prose guy.
Incidentally, I found a stash of old papers and things I had saved, so there will probably a bit more of the selfindulgent navel-gazing on this site for a while. I'll try to keep it lively.
Quote of the Moment
If you could understand it, it wouldn't be poetry.