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An ongoing series designed to share the quality of jazz poetry continuously submitted to Jerry Jazz Musician. This edition features poets – several new to readers of this website – writing about their appreciation for the music, and the diversity and aesthetics of its sound. Along the way, readers will encounter poems that include the great musicians Horace Parlan, Shelly Manne, Keith Jarrett, Zoot Sims, Sun Ra, and Garland Wilson.
As always, thanks to the poets…and enjoy!
Joe Maita
Editor/Publisher
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painting by Linnaea Mallette/CC0/publicdomainpictures.net
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Open Heart
the man with
a beautiful face
born from an
abstract creator
blessed with
golden eyes
and silver hair
scats the sound
blending corners
untraveled before
pushing the limit
running over
and into the
darkness
spreading his arms
welcoming all
into the heart
of Jazz
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by Roger Singer
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What Is Jazz?
I don’t care, give it no name.
Had it since I was a kid
Listening to Symphony Sid
In bed at night, no light.
It’s jazz
Don’t call it anything;
I think it is so many things,
From thinking with no momentary aim or shame
In the moment.
Existence in so many genres.
Candelabra’s wax the same
But height and flame of diff’ring shimmering
Phrase, then back to phase’s theme.
Then there are the ones like me
Singing, playing constantly.
Whatever comes extraneously
But recognizable to those who know –
That to me is jazz ‘s show
Or glow, or flow: the Now.
Lexicon defined jazz as
Unrelated, unconnected, superfluous!
How wrong can it be?
I know that when I play and sing
Not one adjective applies to me —
Not wholly. I’m as free as I can be.
Am I composing? Even posing?
When I makeup in the morning,
I say this: my style, my smile Is me.
And so it is, for if the song’s supposed to end on G
And I choose C.
It is because the C gives listener just the mood I want to be.
Talent’s aptitude and heritage and God…
There together; all together shod
In the facade of unplanned possibilities of Good.
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by Arlene Corwin
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Morning Forte
after Horace Parlan’s revealing
solo dispatch of Blood Count
prompted a window glance
the image seen today found
dark feathered ducks distant
lumbering squat bodies out
of seasoned eastern shadows
across wintering dry grass
for rising daylight beginnings
……………………………………….& water
then Horace keys up Pannonica
while shadows recede
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by Terrance Underwood
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Walking Bass
Shuffle, strut, swing
Clap your hands
Snap the fingers
Tap the toes
It’s in the quarter notes
The thing that swings that thing
Feel the joy
It employs
As you’d expect
It’s up and down the neck
The thing that makes it sing
Every stroke evokes, emotes
Invokes your attention
Triplets augment
Provoke tension in the tempo
They accent
They present
A little gusto to the gumbo
A little three against two
Stirring up the stew
Bass line, so fine, on time
So tight, damn right
Downright upright
Up front, out front, such bravado
As in Jaco, the note bender
At your pleasure
Some Jazz Fender
For good measure
And should the drummer
Keep his promise
And keep time
Like Seth Thomas
Your head will nod
With the pulse of the bass
And plant a silly grimace
On that bad ass face
What it brings
With four strings
Your heart sings
Your heart strings
Set you free
Head swaying
Feel good
So good
Righteous
Right on time
Walking bass
Ella would attest
You walk the walk
That makes it swing
Without it
You guessed it
It don’t mean a thing
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by David Nemerov
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Time Signatures
I hear the days of creation
Clapping between bar lines
Grooves of God through my soul
I throw my head around and around
Back and forth
Hair flies
My heart stomps through time.
I am drummings
At the beginning
Without form
Measure by measure
Day by day
Sacred counts
Pulsing on the downbeat of prayer.
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by Ken Been
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Nobody Else
Stop in Barstow, hiding behind sunglasses
at a budget motel. This is the closest you want to come
to a foreign city. You know the slang & the language
here; your life is unravelling, an accident waiting
to happen. Coca-Cola with plenty of ice, cigarette
stains on the digits of your hand. Jazz pours
out of every open doorway:
Lorez Alexandria & June
Christy; Chet Baker
& Andy Bey.
Your life is a lurid plot with countless twists:
“his posse thinks you’re the one who pulled
the trigger when really it was the one in the
buckskin chaps.”
Who’s a girl gotta know
to get an alibi?
Seems like this getaway
was way overdue, a swath of time
in which anything can happen —
though no one will ever buy
your version of the truth
& nobody ever accused
you of having
angel eyes.
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by Connie Johnson
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Shelly Manne
Time makes of man a play-thing
Yet man alone may play with time –
Here comes Shelly Manne
Have you met this man?
His inner clock can calibrate
A micro hair-breadth fraction
Of silence amid action
In tempi so discreet
He charms a brazen Herd or horde
To linger on a ballad chord
Eliciting lyrical solos
It is cool to be so warm
None suspect you may be cool
Time is a returning spool
Albert Einstein speculates –
A spiral where all tenses meet
So walking in a Roman street
Expresses yesteryear’s espresso…
I was sipping on the cheap
Leaning on the zinc bar with Marco
Aurelius in that café
Just behind the Trevi
Frequented by Fellini
‘Café Zero’
Who clocks the passing scene
Seeking a timely stranger
To pass for Julius Caesar
In his flick at Cinecitta
Of which Roma is the star
Unfolding from her languor
Stories layered like lasagne
Poems underfoot and then some
Poems Underground
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by Bernard Saint
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Keith Jarrett and the Standards Trio
the worker bee is my
nightlight. i feel her warmth
lingering like a melody in the
night, she is perfection in
every song
like jazz, she holds all my
secrets, within the song
i find hope. never regret
i hear the song and i see the light
she leaves melodies like clues
songs glowing like blessings
in the night
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by Erren Geraud Kelly
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Motherless Brooklyn
Piano was never my first choice for jazz
But this conveys such different emotion
Motherless Brooklyn had that odd vibe
And Daniel Pemberton plays the theme
Washing over me like the Hudson river
That haunting melody makes me shiver
It is a bustling city, but almost a dream
Various districts, yet each with its tribe
For some, there’s unexpected devotion
Despite bleakness that no other city has
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by Howard Osborne
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Zoot Sims Flows
At The Final Arms Hotel
Upright bass notes first heard
Deepen a twilight fade
Merging tone and shadow
Into chilled darkness pausing mixed activity
But after stubbing a cigarette butt
A solitary tenor exhales an arpeggio flourish
As a declaration that the time has come to Swing
Leading that lone figure straight
Through an etched glass portal
Up to the waiting bandstand bass man
……………………………………………………..Still blowing
To join a sweetly languid piano
And a brush skinned drummer
Elbow propped sullen faces brighten
Like wanting regal jewels ready
Eager to snap
Eager to tap
To stomp off and replace a tedious malaise
With some upscale blues peppered juice
……………………………………………….Of his own making
And Man! That’s what happened!
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by Terrance Underwood
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Rain on a Friday Afternoon
It’s like a condensation running inside your head
You can write words in it
That levitate into notes
Bouncing off the walls
The heat of the feeling against your cool demeanour
As you wind down the week
To a point of potential energy
The piano sounding like raindrops
Accumulating into pools of excitement
The sway of the sax bringing sunshine
The percussive wind blowing through your mind
Stirring you into movements that have been building
As you dance your way into the kitchen
To cook up that meal you didn’t fancy at all…
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by Anthony Ward
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Midnight Session on Saturday Night
trumpet met sax in middle of a riff
lord how they boogied in the sky
flute dropped in with a funky grin
and the three rocked the cradle
with wild abandon man I thought
I might cry listening and watching
and then bass showed up with
a diddly bop she bop the world
aflame with red hot improvisation
it was a nation of music and piano
pranced in with a run here a run there
vibes snuck in just fitting in singing
whatever was complementary it was
just a midnight session on Saturday night
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by Michael L. Newell
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Lounge Lizard
I sit at the very back
of this New Orleans dive
inhaling a Virginia Slims,
extra long. Like an ivory
conductor’s baton perched
between my Vamp Noir
fingernails.
You close your eyes,
improvise Dixieland jazz.
I watch the reed
of the soprano sax
vibrate between your lips.
Watch you finger the keys,
your hands in unchromatic tandem.
You take a slow drag
on your cigar.
The sweat on your forehead
oozes honey-bourbon.
I ease up behind you,
swivel my hips to yours.
You sway and swagger,
jumping octaves.
An unscripted cadenza
as the piano player slumps
over the keyboard.
You glide down and down
and slide into a suspended seventh chord,
abandoning all resolution.
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by Marianne Peel
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Abstract Dreams
Alabama
in my rear view
awakening Arkestra
filled with musicians of my choosing.
…………………….“I came from a dream that
…the black man dreamed long ago…”
I am new to this ritual
of cosmic interference.
star collecting does not come easy to me
even as I descend from the ghost of Sun Ra.
are there rules in the Universe of which
I am unaware? I’m trying to concentrate.
I weigh my options.
I readjust my headdress laden with feathers,
fur & hide.
the music I make shines like crystals!
it’s otherworldly. you listen & you promise
to wait for me in a world
of abstract dreams.
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by Connie Johnson
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Jazz Playlist
After the Rain,
Something Sweet,
Something Tender.
A little Peace,
some Strength
and Sanity.
An Ocean Song,
or Stolen Moments
on the Blue Nile.
Focus on Sanity,
Congeniality,
Victory and Sorrow.
Left Alone,
We Speak
of Laura,
Waltz For Ruth.
In a Silent Way,
there is Compassion.
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by Russell Dupont
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Curative Jazz
Curative Jazz
Self-expression
…..-uniqueness
…..-connectivity
Syncing solos
…..-remixing
…..-virtuosity
Vibes elixir
…..-caressing
…..-sounds prioritize
Triplets sparking
…..-cognition
…..-positivity
Rhythmic healing
…..-composure
…..-tempos in-between
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by Mike Mignano
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Sissy Man Blues
………………..if you can’t send me no woman, send me some sissy man
………………………………….Kokomo Arnold
That moment in Harlem, October 1926.
You’ve never really heard a piano played
until you heard Garland Wilson—I read that
on a museum wall. Garland played Boogie
Woogie and Stride. Eventually, he ditched
the USA for France. Left behind the fast
steppin’ revues. Nightclubs that lasted
only a few nights. Dancing the Snakehips.
Now they call it The Gay Harlem Renaissance.
Then, it was known as the Paris of New York.
Garland was the bff of Mary Lou Williams,
gay men and women ever forming tenacious
bonds. Ethel Waters, bisexual and prolific
climbed the show biz ranks. Gladys Bentley
in white tails—today she might be labeled trans.
There were Renaissance poets like Claude
McKay. Writing it all down. Leaves changed
on 125th Street so everyone knew it was autumn.
Fire! – the zine that documented the scene
left behind the tone but no sounds. Garland
eventually collapsed on top of a piano
at Le Boel sur le Toit. Played out but not
forgotten.
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by Geer Austin
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Thirteen Ways of Playing Tapas
………after Wallace Stevens and based on the music of Alice Coltrane
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Among four jazz musicians,
The only moving things
Were the strings of her harp.
II
She was of one aim,
Like a fire
In which there burns one flame.
III
The audience delighted in the cosmic chords.
It was a central piece of the pageant.
IV
A husband and a wife
Are one.
A husband and a wife and a song
Are one.
V
I do not know which meant more
The music at Birdland
Or the meeting of souls
The quartets thrumming
Or just after.
VI
Water flowed along the river
With savage rocks.
The reflection of the bird
Swooped across, to and fro.
The spirit
Shone in the silhouette
An imperceptible mood.
VII
O widows of Dix Hills,
…..Why do you dream of endless joy?
…..Do you not see how blank grief
…..Splashes around the feet
…..Of the women about you?
VIII
I know technical talents
And rehearsed, academic compositions;
But I know, too,
That a dynamism is involved
In what I hear.
IX
When the heart cried out of loneliness,
It signaled the birth
Of one of many changes.
X
At the sound of syncopation
Flying in the summer breeze
Even the students of theory
Would put down their books.
XI
She walked through Woodland Hills
In orange robes.
Once, a bolt struck her,
In that she mistook
The dissonance of nature
For Stravinsky.
XII
The river is moving.
The swan must be flying.
XIII
It was tomorrow all afternoon.
It was raining
And it was going to rain.
The woman sat
at the golden harp.
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(Originally published by The Ekphrastic Review)
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by Lara Dolphin
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Night View
Frenchmen Street—
the blood moon’s
solo show
on the catwalk
of live jazz
is perfectly round.
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by Jianqing Zheng
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Dreich
Gerry Hemingway (percussion)/Waterways
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as soft as a drizzle of coins
slapped across a snare, but here
the rain is for real; gulped down
by the hungry home town creek
he knelt beside with a mic
half an inch from the water’s
chirrup and chatter, carrying
its sparkle and substance
home to re-light it, rearrange it,
add pebbles and cymbals
then sail the new dream
out into the air, it’s fall reversed
so he’s out there now, taking a brush
to the clouds, snaring a little green
to the blue: waiting for sun and rain
to tumble him home where the creek
hits the river, the river moves the ocean:
another drop of rain in a blind man’s cup
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by Ian Mullins
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Visitors
I hear spattering of leaves on my window
rhythmic as Milt Jackson solo
wind rises shaking my heart
as Ella does when her voice swells
when rain dances across lawn
I imagine Oscar Peterson sweeping me
into world of rhythm and melody
transporting me beyond banal quotidian
when storm ends there is utter silence
as at end of Bill Evans solo
as I slip into sleep I am at peace
for once night is my friend
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by Michael L. Newell
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Ken Been is the author of the forthcoming Opposing Thumbs, a chapbook of poetry reflecting on hitchhiking from Detroit to the West Coast and onwards during 1973. His writing has been published or forthcoming in numerous journals internationally and also can be found in anthologies including Remembering Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
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Brooklyn-born Arlene Corwin, now in her 90’s, is a harpist, pianist and singer – a jazz musician forever. She earned her BA at Hofstra Univ. She has published 19 poetry books. In the 1950s her mother owned a jazz club in Hempstead, Long Island with Slim Gaillard. She currently lives in Sweden.
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A descendant of immigrants, Lara Dolphin lives with her family among the Allegheny Mountains of Central Pennsylvania on the ancestral land of the Susquehannock/Iroquois people. She has written three chapbooks; In Search Of The Wondrous Whole, Chronicle Of Lost Moments, and At Last a Valley. She, like countless others, hopes for a world filled with greater peace.
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Russell Dupont, poet, artist, novelist, has published in the albatross, Spectrum, The I, For Poets Only, The Anthology of South Shore Poets, Re-Side, Oddball, Jerry Jazz Musician, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Rye Whiskey Review, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, the new post-literate, DADAKU, One Sentence, Verse-Virtual, Lothlorien Journal, Pick-Me-Up Poetry, Poetry Porch, Concrete Formalist Poetry and the Northern New England Review. He is the author of three novels: King & Train, Waiting for the Turk, Movin’ On; a collection of short stories, Norman Mailer Walks Into a Bar; four collections of poetry: Winter, 1948, Establishing Home Plate, Jazz at the Point and One Foot in Front of the Other.
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Connie Johnson has multiple Pushcart Prize nominations for poetry. A California-based writer, she has authored Everything is Distant Now (Blue Horse Press) and I Have Almost Everything (Boats Against the Current). In a Place of Dreams, her digital chapbook (containing audio readings/personal narrative), was published by Jerry Jazz Musician. Click here to view it.
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Erren Kelly is a three-time Pushcart nominated poet from Boston whose work has appeared in 300 publications (print and online), including Hiram Poetry Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine, Ceremony, Cacti Fur, Bitterzoet, Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, and Poetry Salzburg.
Click here to read “Under Quarantine” — COVID-era poetry of Erren Kelly, published by Jerry Jazz Musician
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Ian Mullins bales out from Liverpool, England. Collections include Almost Human (Original Plus, 2017), Masks and Shadows (Wordcatcher, 2019), Take A Deep Breath (Dempsey & Windle, 2020), Dirty Sweet (Anxiety Press, 2023), Fear Of Falling Backwards (Cajun Mutt Press, 2023) and NightWatchMan (Alien Buddha Press, 2024.)
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David Nemerov, 75, has been writing poems for a little over 3 years. His subjects are whatever comes to mind. Along with the poetry he moonlights as drummer with an affinity for Jazz, Blues, Zydeco, and whatever catches his fancy.
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Michael L. Newell lives on the Atlantic Coast of Florida. His most recent book of poems is Passage of a Heart. Click here to read “What is this Path” – a collection of poems published on Jerry Jazz Musician
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Howard Osborne has written poetry and short stories, also a novel and several scripts. With poems published online and in print, he is a published author of a non-fiction reference book and several scientific papers many years ago. He is a UK citizen, retired, with interests in writing, music and travel.
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After having taught middle and high school English for 32 years, Marianne Peel is now nurturing her own creative spirit. She has spent three summers in Guizhou Province, teaching best practices to teachers in China. She received Fulbright-Hays Awards to Nepal (2003) and Turkey (2009). She participated in Marge Piercy’s Juried Intensive Poetry Workshop (2016), and her poetry appears in Muddy River Poetry Review, Belle Reve Literary Journal, Jelly Bucket Journal, among others. She is also a veteran musician, playing flute/sax and singing in various orchestras, bands, choirs, and jazz bands her whole life. She has published three full length poetry collections; No Distance Between Us, and Singing is Praying Twice are from Shadelandhouse Modern Press, and her latest collection, Untamed Arabesque, is from Act of Power Press
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Bernard Saint is a U.K. poet who has published in U.K. and United States literary magazines since the 1960’s. He is a regular contributor to International Times. His most recent book is ROMA, published by Smokestack Books. He worked as a therapist and supervisor in the U.K. National Health Service in psychiatry and in addiction recovery.
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Dr. Roger Singer was in private chiropractic practice for 38 years in upstate New York, and served as a medical technician during the Vietnam era. Dr. Singer is the Poet Laureate of Old Lyme, Connecticut, and has had over 1,070 poems published on the Internet, magazines and in books, and is a 2017 Pushcart Prize Award Nominee. He is also the President of the Shoreline Chapter of the Connecticut Poetry Society.
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Terrance Underwood is a retired Gas Turbine Package Engineer whose career offered opportunities to work all over the world. A devoted jazz enthusiast, his first memory operating a mechanical devise was a 4-speed spindle drop record changer for his father’s collection of 78s. In 2024, he was nominated by Jerry Jazz Musician for a Pushcart Prize.
Click here to read Proceeding From Behind: A collection of poems grounded in the rhythmic, relating to the remarkable, by Terrance Underwood
Click here to read his collection of poems “With Ease in Mind”
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Anthony Ward chooses to write because he has no choice. He writes to get rid of himself and lay his thoughts to rest. He derives most of his inspiration from listening to classical music and jazz since it is often the mood which inspires him. He has recently been published in Jerry Jazz Musician, Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Mad Swirl, Shot Glass Journal and Ariel Chart.
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Click for:
Previous collections of “21 jazz poems on the 21st”
More poetry on Jerry Jazz Musician
Poems on Charlie “Bird” Parker (inspired by a painting by Al Summ) – an ekphrastic poetry collection
War. Remembrance. Walls. The High Price of Authoritarianism – by editor/publisher Joe Maita
“My Vertical Landscape,” Felicia A. Rivers’ winning story in the 69th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest
More short fiction on Jerry Jazz Musician
Information about how to submit your poetry or short fiction
Subscribe to the (free) Jerry Jazz Musician quarterly newsletter
Helping to support the ongoing publication of Jerry Jazz Musician, and to keep it commercial-free (thank you!)
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