Thank you, Barry and Kasper. My 'first job' (as a teenager) was as a
drummer in a so-called jazz band, but my real experience of this kind
of scene was as a jazz club manager a decade later. Phoebe was a real
character, just as I describe her. A r'n'r bass player tried to
research her sexuality one night - and ended up with a black eye! And
he was from Glasgow <g>
All comments welcome - please. Any line endings or prosaic lines too
bland - have yr say and help me in the process ...
Andrew
On 23 June 2010 03:05, kasper salonen <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> the bohemian spirit in these lines is great. it's narrative, but not
> obnoxiously or too selectively.
> the only suggestion I have is to make line 29 "what we were cooking".
>
> KS
>
> On 22 June 2010 18:16, andrew burke <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
>> I've been trying to write a poem for a competition - jazz poem for
>> 'extempore' magazine. This came up, which isn't a competition winner
>> type poem, but still I think has some value. In saying that, I feel it
>> still can be improved a lot, so I throw it in the ring to see if you
>> have any ideas. One thing you may not know is, 'Salt Peanuts' was a
>> hit for Dizzy Gillespie decades back, and some bop bands use it as a
>> sign-off piece at the end of brackets.
>>
>> Breakfast Nowhere Special (title)
>>
>> Greasy spoon breakfast
>> in a wintry café at dawn. We play
>> dark corners, big towns,
>> little towns, by the perennial park where
>> the war memorial stands and the homeless
>> drink. A bleak life with scant reward —
>> they’re escaping nine-to-five,
>> the rat race, just like us. We play
>> hard bop born in a USA cellar.
>> Last night we were Miles and Trane,
>> Elvin and Monk — now we’re shrinking
>> into our own skins, mumbling
>> smoky midnight echoes, Phoebe with us,
>> androgynous, on edge, in
>> catsuit and wig. George reckons
>> she’s a guy, and Jean-Paul is
>> writing her into a suite. We’re
>> coming down over beans and bacon,
>> tipping whisky into our tea when
>> the guy’s not looking. Shades hide our eyes
>> where smoke and stage lights
>> left bleeding tracks. Our
>> next stop is a regional centre, built
>> for ballet and opera but needing
>> funds. Cash is always popular.
>> ‘Yeah! Salt peanuts!’ Paul shouts,
>> slapping the table, and we all laugh.
>> We want the world to know
>> we were cooking last night,
>> we were _someone_ up there. Now, here,
>> paradiddling in a drear city dawn,
>> we hang out to keep
>> the dream drumming.
>>
>> *
>>
>> All comments welcome.
>>
>> PS: With Hal's permission I put his poem up on my blog.Take a look if
>> you have a moment.
>>
>> Andrew
>> http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
>> 'Mother Waits for Father Late' republished available at
>> http://www.picaropress.com/
>> http://www.qlrs.com/poem.asp?id=766
>> http://frankshome.org/AndrewBurke.html
>>
>
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
'Mother Waits for Father Late' republished available at
http://www.picaropress.com/
http://www.qlrs.com/poem.asp?id=766
http://frankshome.org/AndrewBurke.html
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