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I have to plead basic ignorance of most new jazz artists here.

quote by Gary Lucas
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Blues, The Jazz, The City

The city is jazz under neon lights
The jazz is blues stoned
And the city never forgets this
Like the heart never forgets to pulse
And the stars never forget to shine in the night
But it takes jazz to move it, to move it all
So the jazz is the beat that always burns
So the heavens continue to shine on and shine all

The jazz soothes the souls of the children
Though the city is old, the jazz is young
Thus the jazz, fast and heavy, radiates the city
She returns her to her ember glow in night

The city is high on the hill and low in the valley
She is the heart, the blessed nectar, the blossom shower
The jazz glows in prosperous tombs
She serves the crashing wave of the monsoon, to the city's bay, to the ancient harbor, across bold rivers, to lakes nestled in the safety of moors and battlefields, and sings to the forest and soaks the timber and every reborn city is cloaked in the fingertip of jazz
Since jazz destroys and creates, it is the fire, and so the smoke rises higher
Hark the newborn guff of jazz
The baptized funeral pyre

Hench jazz is the gospel, the good news
She returns though, always to the blues
Love the blue lady, her old cracked voice
The blues, the jazz, and the lady unite
To the bravery of her song she sang to the evil eyes of the Kodak dragon whose hair in the hiding bear under masks of hatred
The jealous lair, the haunt of despair
And jazz shines on, they can't stop her
The lady of the city sings to the farm
No choir can match the timbre of the lady
My first love,
She shines on for me when I am sad, through me in melancholy
And we join in joy, the lady sees all, feels all, and sings on
Rambunctious be the lady, the city, the blues
Who beat for hearts at night

From the slide trombone, the tut-tut-tut of the mighty snare
The brass milieu for brighter days and neon lights
The whimper
The whimper of the stand-up bass, who carries the beat, the jazz, the blues, the night
In your arms I am safe and sound, the sounds who hold me tight
And above all, upon the highest peak, the great black giants, the black hands and breath of jazz, food for the soul and fodder, who inspire all in the world
But the two giants upon the highest mountain compete for the night and walk away friends as we do
They too are the shine, the noble sheen, and while the lady sings, they dance, the boozers hound and prance, the lovers kneel and romance and the giants push the pebbles from beneath their mountain feet

Who knows how many souls the jazz saved, but I know she saved mine
The giants, trumpet and sax, and even the sweet other of New Orleans, a trumpet and voice, a demigod, and every other band and face and time
So the jazz soothed them too to be saved, as they played, we all played, and jazz shines for the night
And Jack drew the map in sketches, he saw the jazz, but the jazz sees all, and saves all who smile upon her because she loves all, but can only save those who hear her call because she is human

[...] Read more

poem by Jay Bradley
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JAZZ and RAINBOWS

What is Jazz - What is a Rainbow?
You can ask the questions - don't expect answers

Jazz is free and yet constrained
Rainbows come and go as they please

Jazz is wild and yet restrained
Rainbow can't exist without rain

Jazz is open and yet contained
Rainbows always have red at the top

Jazz is unscored and yet maintained
Rainbows can be single - double - triple

Just as Jango Rheinhardt said to Segovia
Senor it ees all in ze 'ed
The same is true of rainbows
Zey are all inside my 'ed!

It takes all the colours of pure white sound
To create jazz.
It takes all the colours of pure white light
To create a rainbow.

Jazz and rainbows operate on the same principle
In jazz the tone colours are separated by the players
In a rainbow the visible colours are separated by a raindrop
Jazz and rainbows are boh equally beautiful.

After the rain there are stll some drops in the atmosphere
They refract the white light into R O Y G B I V,
In the same way the 'Jazz Combo' is able to dissect.
The white sound of music is disected by the musicains

On a sunny day - the white light hits the raindrop
The colours are dispersed forming the rainbow.
In jazz - each member if the Combo has a colour!
The double bass has red - the saxaphone is orange!

The percussion is yellow - the brass is green
The clarinet is blue - trhe banjo is indigo
The guitar is violet and the piano is striped!
The combo plays and whiite sound is re-produced.

Because we are humans our senses of life are acute.
Our eyes for colour and our ears for sound.
The quality of this provision enables us to distinguish colour
And to distinguish between all the tones and semi-tones.

[...] Read more

poem by John Knight
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Victor Should Have Been A Jazz Musician

I went to a concert, to see nina, simone,
The concert was over, there was still a band playing, the rap up,
The booguh played with his hands, I close my eyes, and look at him,
Victor should have been a jazz musician,
I said to myself, victor should have been a jazz musician,
I looked at his face, and I saw victor, looked at his smile, and I saw victor,
I looked at his hair, and thought,
Victor should have been a jazz musician,
Victor should have been a jazz musician,
And the people dancing on the floor, dancing on the floor, were so high,
You should have seen victor smile, you should have seen victor smile,
As they danced all the while all around on the floor, and he laughed,
Victor should have been a jazz musician,
Oh, victor should have been a jazz musician,
He was playing so nice, the jazz musician,
Ah, ah,
Hes living in a fast beat, in a city thats hot,
Telling all the latinos and puerto ricans, victor seems happy, but he doesnt even know himself, hes gotta look inside to know his first love,
Victor was a jazz musician, he was playing so nice, victor was a jazz musician, (? ) victor was a jazz musician,
Victor loves his music, he loves his music, somewhere, he plays his music, somewhere,
Victor is a jazz musician,
Jazz.

song performed by Grace Jones
Added by Lucian Velea
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House Of Jazz

Humdinger
Bell ringer
Got a nasty stinger
To slow you down
Mud slinger
Gold digger
Who point the finger
And do you down
Kickin' and a fightin' on a TV show
Lightin' blindin' in the middle of the road
Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in

I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz

Ball stripper
Big tipper
Got a slap 'n' tickler
To make you growl
Spitin' and bitin' on a TV show
Tightenin' frightenin' givin' out a load
Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in

I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz

Are you comin' in
Come on in

Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Are you comin' in
Are you comin' in
I said into the house of jazz

[...] Read more

song performed by AC/DC from Stiff Upper Lip
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House Of Jazz

(young - young)
Humdinger
Bell ringer
Got a nasty stinger
To slow you down
Mud slinger
Gold digger
Who point the finger
And do you down
Kickin and a fightin on a tv show
Lightin blindin in the middle of the road
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz, yes
Ball stripper
Big tipper
Got a slap n tickler
To make you growl
A spitin and bitin on a tv show
Tightenin frightenin givin out a load
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Are you comin in
Come on in
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
Are you comin in
Are you comin in
I said into the house of jazz
Come into the house of
Come into the house of
Come into the house of jazz
The house of jazz

[...] Read more

song performed by AC-DC
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Washed Away Under Work Loads

artists feel frustrated
when achieving not
when producing art not
not realizing images
in shifting vision mind

artists should
be producing art
no time for cooking
no time for cleaning
no time for hair cut

artists should not
not be able to keep up
with fermenting ideas
rain weather changes
haunting wake up calls

not creating art
is wasting artistic souls
is wasting artistic lives
in dry season droughts
withering artistic minds

work income human activities
life necessity farming for wages
dependent on salary climates
fifty sixty wage slave hours
is change devastating for artists

this drought no time for artistic activities
is crop failure starvation of artistic minds
leading to artistic suffering on massive scales
droughts are caused by lack of fertility rains
extended over long periods of wage slave times

slight brief rains slight artistic showers
is normality artistic not enough spring rains
to ground absorb artistic evaporated minds
artist is dehydrated lacking soul rejuvenations
plants animals need sustaining life waters

artists need self generated creativity waters
least art dies death of artistic dehydrations
art is main ingredient in artistic food chains
plants die from lack of water therefore animals
eating these plants will also die in drought cycles

artists true artists deprived of art wither drought dies
in mind soul lacking artistic flowering rejuvenations

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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The History of Jazz

I

The leaves of blue came drifting down.
In the corner Madeleine Reierbacher was reading Lorna Doone.
The bay’s water helped to implement the structuring of the garden hose.
The envelope fell. Was it pink or was it red? Consult Lorna Doone.
There, voyager, you will find your answer. The savant grapeade stands
Remember Madeleine Reierbacher. Madeleine Reierbacher says,
“If you are happy, there is no one to keep you from being happy;
Don’t let them!” Madeleine Reierbacher went into the racing car.
The racing car was orange and red. Madeleine Reierbacher drove to Beale Street.
There Maddy doffed her garments to get into some more comfortable clothes.
Jazz was already playing in Beale Street when Madeleine Reierbacher arrived there.
Madeleine Reierbacher picked up the yellow horn and began to play.
No one had ever heard anything comparable to the playing of Madeleine Reierbacher.
What a jazz musician! The pianist missed his beats because he was so excited.
The drummer stared out the window in ecstasy at the yellow wooden trees.
The orchestra played “September in the Rain,” “Mugging,” and “I’m Full of Love.”
Madeleine Reierbacher rolled up her sleeves; she picked up her horn; she played “Blues in the Rain.”
It was the best jazz anyone had ever heard. It was mentioned in the newspapers. St. Louis!
Madeleine Reierbacher became a celebrity. She played with Pesky Summerton and Muggsy Pierce.
Madeleine cut numerous disks. Her best waxings are “Alpha Beta and Gamma”
And “Wing Song.” One day Madeleine was riding on a donkey
When she came to a yellow light; the yellow light did not change.
Madeleine kept hoping it would change to green or red. She said, “As long as you have confidence,
You need be afraid of nothing.” Madeleine saw the red smokestacks, she looked at the thin trees,
And she regarded the railroad tracks. The yellow light was unchanging. Madeleine’s donkey dropped dead
From his mortal load. Madeleine Reierbacher, when she fell to earth,
Picked up a blade of grass and began to play. “The Blues!” cried the workmen of the vicinity,
And they ran and came in great numbers to where Madeleine Reierbacher was.
They saw her standing in that simple field beside the railroad track
Playing, and they saw that light changing to green and red, and they saw that donkey stand up
And rise into the sky; and Madeleine Reierbacher was like a clot of blue
In the midst of the blue of all that sky, and the young farmers screamed
In excitement, and the workmen dropped their heavy boards and stones in their excitement,
And they cried, “O Madeleine Reierbacher, play us the ‘Lead Flint Blues’ once again!”

O railroad stations, pennants, evenings, and lumberyards!
When will you ever bring us such a beautiful soloist again?
An argent strain shows on the reddish face of the sun.
Madeleine Reierbacher stands up and screams, “I am getting wet! You are all egotists!”
Her brain floats up into the lyric atmosphere of the sky.
We must figure out a way to keep our best musicians with us.
The finest we have always melt in the light blue sky!
In the middle of a concert, sometimes, they disappear, like anvils.
(The music comes down to us with sweet white hands on our shoulders.)
We stare up in surprise; and we hear Madeleine’s best-known tune once again,
“If you ain’t afraid of life, life can’t be afraid for you.”
Madeleine! Come back and sing to us!

[...] Read more

poem by Kenneth Koch
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Enter Jazz

In the past few weeks
(1995, I think)
A whole field of music
Has knocked on my door.
Jazz has made my acquaintance.
Jazz who has always before
Seemed so stale, so staid,
So stuck in a groove
Sometime back in the thirties,
Jazz now emerges
As the most delightful companion.

I first noticed
My new friend
On the Voice of America,
A sudden lightness of spirit
Lighting up my room
Through the transistor radio.

Then Nancy, Carolyn's mum in Ferny Creek,
Turned out to be a jazz fan
With a collection of cassettes,
And I abandoned myself
To jazz's invitation
To dance,
Easy, free-flowing steps
Up and down
The lounge-room carpet.

Last night
The friendship firmed further:
In the E.G. Guide
Was listed a jazz trio
Which they claimed could be heard
At the Albert Park Hotel
Not far away.
The trio swelled to seven or eight musicians
As the evening unfolded
And I drank in the rhythms
Of what a chat with their apparent leader, Bill,
Revealed was traditional jazz
In the Chicago style,
So sweet, so gentle, so softly swinging.
Jazz took my arm
And smiled.

I have a new friend.

poem by Peter Elliott
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Too Much In-The-Love

A position of proposition kept.
Researched...
With a common sense,
Not academic!

I am not someone to invite to test.
But I've never met an obstacle...
That has of yet,
Made me unhappy because we've met.

'Cause I'm...
Too much in-the-love!
Yes,
I'm...
Just too basic.

I studied all the books in school.
And as a rule I found this true...
I am,
Too much in-the-love!
Yes!
And...
Just too basic.

My Masters and my Doctorate,
I got early in life.
And the military taught me...
To be,
Decisive!

A position of proposition kept.
Researched...
With a common sense,
Not academic!

'Cause I'm...
Too much in-the-love!
Yes,
In-the-LOVE!
And...
Just 'too' basic.

My 'degree' is in my 'own' history!
And my proposition spoken,
Is in my position...
Stated!

Too much in-the-love!
Yes,
In-the-LOVE!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Gotham - Book III

Can the fond mother from herself depart?
Can she forget the darling of her heart,
The little darling whom she bore and bred,
Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed;
To whom she seem'd her every thought to give,
And in whose life alone she seem'd to live?
Yes, from herself the mother may depart,
She may forget the darling of her heart,
The little darling whom she bore and bred,
Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed,
To whom she seem'd her every thought to give,
And in whose life alone she seem'd to live;
But I cannot forget, whilst life remains,
And pours her current through these swelling veins,
Whilst Memory offers up at Reason's shrine;
But I cannot forget that Gotham's mine.
Can the stern mother, than the brutes more wild,
From her disnatured breast tear her young child,
Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone,
And dash the smiling babe against a stone?
Yes, the stern mother, than the brutes more wild,
From her disnatured breast may tear her child,
Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone,
And dash the smiling babe against a stone;
But I, (forbid it, Heaven!) but I can ne'er
The love of Gotham from this bosom tear;
Can ne'er so far true royalty pervert
From its fair course, to do my people hurt.
With how much ease, with how much confidence--
As if, superior to each grosser sense,
Reason had only, in full power array'd,
To manifest her will, and be obey'd--
Men make resolves, and pass into decrees
The motions of the mind! with how much ease,
In such resolves, doth passion make a flaw,
And bring to nothing what was raised to law!
In empire young, scarce warm on Gotham's throne,
The dangers and the sweets of power unknown,
Pleased, though I scarce know why, like some young child,
Whose little senses each new toy turns wild,
How do I hold sweet dalliance with my crown,
And wanton with dominion, how lay down,
Without the sanction of a precedent,
Rules of most large and absolute extent;
Rules, which from sense of public virtue spring,
And all at once commence a Patriot King!
But, for the day of trial is at hand,
And the whole fortunes of a mighty land
Are staked on me, and all their weal or woe
Must from my good or evil conduct flow,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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I Plead Insanity

I cant be responsible
For anything I do now or say now
I get too excitable
To control the way I behave now
Im afraid of what Ill do
If I find myself alone with you
Its just a crime of passion baby
Dont hold it against me
Im innocent
Im just out of my mind
I plead insanity
Whoa, Im so mad about you
I cant think straight, I cant see straight
I plead insanity
All I do is obsess about you
I cant work days
I cant sleep nights
I plead insanity
I know that there are rules for this
And I plan to break every one of them
And if I go too far tonight
Baby you can be my alibi
And if I act irrational
Im not responsible
For anything that happens here
Dont hold it against me
Im innocent
Im just out of my mind
I plead insanity
All I do is obsess about you
I cant work days
I cans sleep nights
I plead insanity
I plead insanity
Whoa, Im so mad about you
I cant think straight, I cant see straight
I plead insanity
All I do is obsess about you
I cant work days
I cant sleep nights
I have a fantasy...

song performed by Belinda Carlisle
Added by Lucian Velea
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Aint To Proud To Beg

Holland/whitfield
I know you wanna leave me
But I refuse to let you go
If I have to beg, plead for your sympathy
I dont mind cause you mean that much to me
Aint to proud to beg, sweet darling
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Now Ive heard a crying man is half a man
With no sense of pride
But if I have to cry to keep you
I dont mind weeping
If itll keep you by my side
Aint to proud to beg, sweet darling
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
(dont you go away)
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Aint to proud to beg, sweet darling
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Instrumental
(dont you go away)
(dont you go away)
If I have to sleep on your doorstep all night and day
Just to keep you from walking away
Let your friends laugh, even this I can stand
cause I wanna keep you any way I can
Aint to proud to beg, sweet darling
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Aint to proud to beg, sweet darling
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Put yourself in my place
I only for a little while
Come on, try it, come on, try it
Come on, try it (try it, try it, try it)
Put yourself in my place
I only for a little while
Come on, try it, come on, try it
Come on, try it (try it, try it, try it)
Aint to proud to beg, sweet darling
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Choruses to fade

song performed by Rick Astley
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Metamorphoses: Book The Thirteenth

THE chiefs were set; the soldiers crown'd the
field:
To these the master of the seven-fold shield
Upstarted fierce: and kindled with disdain.
Eager to speak, unable to contain
His boiling rage, he rowl'd his eyes around
The shore, and Graecian gallies hall'd a-ground.
The Then stretching out his hands, O Jove, he cry'd,
Speeches of Must then our cause before the fleet be try'd?
Ajax and And dares Ulysses for the prize contend,
Ulysses In sight of what he durst not once defend?
But basely fled that memorable day,
When I from Hector's hands redeem'd the flaming
prey.
So much 'tis safer at the noisie bar
With words to flourish, than ingage in war.
By diff'rent methods we maintain our right,
Nor am I made to talk, nor he to fight.
In bloody fields I labour to be great;
His arms are a smooth tongue, and soft deceit:
Nor need I speak my deeds, for those you see,
The sun, and day are witnesses for me.
Let him who fights unseen, relate his own,
And vouch the silent stars, and conscious moon.
Great is the prize demanded, I confess,
But such an abject rival makes it less;
That gift, those honours, he but hop'd to gain,
Can leave no room for Ajax to be vain:
Losing he wins, because his name will be
Ennobled by defeat, who durst contend with me.
Were my known valour question'd, yet my blood
Without that plea wou'd make my title good:
My sire was Telamon, whose arms, employ'd
With Hercules, these Trojan walls destroy'd;
And who before with Jason sent from Greece,
In the first ship brought home the golden fleece.
Great Telamon from Aeacus derives
His birth (th' inquisitor of guilty lives
In shades below; where Sisyphus, whose son
This thief is thought, rouls up the restless heavy
stone),
Just Aeacus, the king of Gods above
Begot: thus Ajax is the third from Jove.
Nor shou'd I seek advantage from my line,
Unless (Achilles) it was mix'd with thine:
As next of kin, Achilles' arms I claim;
This fellow wou'd ingraft a foreign name
Upon our stock, and the Sisyphian seed
By fraud, and theft asserts his father's breed:
Then must I lose these arms, because I came

[...] Read more

poem by Ovid
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Courtney Pine

Listen to me now,
For there is a sound of music flowing in the air;
Listen to me now,
For the melody of a realm is about to touch you and teach you;
And, to 'Courtney Pine' i do pay my respect.
Listen to me now,
For the message will infuse your brains with Jazz! !
And, to 'Courtney Pine' i do give my respect;
However, it is very important to listen to the words of our elders.

The Jazz music of 'Courtney Pine',
it is very important to learn from him as well;
So, listen to the sweet music of Jazz that he plays!
For the melody of this realm is about to touch you and teach you.
to the muse of music,
From the lessons he learnt from 'Mac Tontoh';
And to swing up with his mind so sweet! !
From the Jazz world of love and to the Jazz world of peace,
But, you've got to be somebody for someone on this earth.

Hope is a beautiful mind in your heart's desires,
But you are of the courteous order of the realms!
And, you are unifying us with your Jazz Music;
For, you're paired in nature's endeavours.

'Courtney Pine',
Nurturing everybody with the 'Order of the British Empire' (O.B.E.) !
But, you are placed in nature's endeavours to educate the youth;
And like the muse of your love when you paid Ghana a visit.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Plain Truth and Blind Ignorance

Truth
'God speed you, ancient father,
And give you a good daye;
What is the cause, I praye you,
So sadly here you staye?
And that you keep such gazing
On this decayed place,
The which, for superstition,
Good princes down did raze?'

Ignorance
'Chill tell thee, by my vazen,
That zometimes che have knowne
A vair and goodly abbey
Stand here of bricke and stone;
And many a holy vrier,
As ich may say to thee,
Within these goodly cloysters
Che did full often zee.'

Truth.
'Then I must tell thee, father,
In truthe and veritie,
A sorte of greater hypocrites
Thou couldst not likely see;
Deceiving of the simple
With false and feigned lies:
But such an order truly
Christ never did devise.'

Ignorance.
'Ah! ah! che zmell the enow, man;
Che know well what thou art;
A vellow of mean learning,
Thee was not worth a vart;
Vor when we had the old lawe,
A merry world was then,
And every thing was plenty
Among all zorts of men.'

Truth.
'Thou givest me an answer,
As did the Jewes sometimes
Unto the prophet Jeremye,
When he accus'd their crimes:
' 'Twas mercy,' sayd the people,
'And joyfull in our rea'me,
When we did offer spice-cakes
Unto the queen of hea'n.''

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Aint Too Proud To Beg

Aint too proud to beg
I know ya wanna leave me, but I refuse to let you go
If I have to beg and plead for your sympathy,
I dont mind coz you mean that much to me
Aint too proud to beg, you know it (sweet darlin)
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Now I heard a cryin man, is half a man
With no sense of pride
But if I have to cry to keep ya, I dont mind weepin
If itll keep you by my side
Aint too proud to beg, you know it sweet darlin
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
If I have to sleep on your doorstep all night and day just to keep you from walkin away let your friends laugh, even this I can stand cause I want to keep you any way I can
Aint too proud to beg, you know it sweet darlin
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Now Ive gotta love so deep in the pit of my heart
And each day it grows more and more Im not ashamed to come and plead to you baby
If pleadin keeps you from walkin out that door
Aint too proud to beg, you know it sweet darlin
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please dont leave me girl, dont you go
Baby - baby - baby

song performed by Hall & Oates
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ain't Too Proud To Beg

HollandWhitfield
I know you wanna leave me
But I refuse to let you go
If I have to beg, plead for your sympathy
I don't mind 'cause you mean that much to me
Aint to proud to beg, sweet darling
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Now I've heard a crying man is half a man
With no sense of pride
But if I have to cry to keep you
I don't mind weeping
If it'll keep you by my side
Aint to proud to beg, sweet darling
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
(Don't you go away)
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Aint to proud to beg, sweet darling
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
INSTRUMENTAL
(Don't you go away)
(Don't you go away)
If I have to sleep on your doorstep all night and day
Just to keep you from walking away
Let your friends laugh, even this I can stand
'Cause I wanna keep you any way I can
Aint to proud to beg, sweet darling
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Aint to proud to beg, sweet darling
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Aint to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Put yourself in my place
I only for a little while
Come on, try it, come on, try it
Come on, try it (try it, try it, try it)
Put yourself in my place
I only for a little while
Come on, try it, come on, try it
Come on, try it (try it,

song performed by Rick Astley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ellamental

Way back, take a look, she would cook
When they were stompin at the savoy
She would blow, and they would dance, dont you know ?
It was an uptown kind a show
Cool notes and melodies, harmonies
She sang the song of the universe
She can make a joyful noise up to heaven
And call the angels down to the earth
From jazz, to swing, to be-bop
She kept the spirit alive
For bo, duke, dizzy, and miles
She spoke her mind
Shes ellamental to the art
She spoke her mind
Shes ellamental to the art
Too hot, until the dawn she sang on
When joints were jumpin and jive was in
Bodies movin back and forth to the rhythm
Ever since ella first did her thing
From jazz, to swing to be-bop
She brought emotions and moves
She kept the spirit alive.
She spoke her mind
Act like ya know, oh!
Was it the smooth tones that was so much like butter
Oh ella was singin just like no other singer
Cause you know I be the funky bringer of the new style
Because I be the wild child.
Listenin to hip-hop, listening to be-bop and jazz
Ella made you move that ass
Sensation for the people, insperation for the sisters and brothers
Smooth jazz for the midnight lovers
Savoy was the spot for shakin on your rump and
Ella made it hoppin
Got the joint jumpin, remembering you til the dawn
Because ella your memory goes on
She spoke her mind (yeah...and it just dont stop)
Shes ellamental to the art (the memory goes on and on...cause it just dont stop)
She spoke her mind (...yeah..jazz to the bebop)
Shes ellamental to the art
She spoke her mind..(yeah...much love...)
She spoke her mind...

song performed by Vanessa Williams
Added by Lucian Velea
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Now, Heart' - Some Of What I Remember When I Listen

A river is a process through time, and the river stages are its momentary parts.
—Willard Van Orman Quine

From early poems,1970s, youthful indiscretions/attempts to vocally/poetically arrive at/derive a worthwhile writer's voice. Some explication might serve or enhance these under serving, undeserving though 'striving-after' poems hidden in old journals understandably unpublished but now so with apologies which are these expiatory explanations. Recently rediscovering these early arrivals, derivative yet aspiring I recognized and reembraced an enduring self maturing, arriving into late middle age:

Obsessed newly by jazz, mad about the many miraculous lady singers, entranced all too easily as youth are wont to be by sorrows and sexual infatuations which feel, emphasis on 'feel', like love, here are two of many 'songs' as tributes and life markers to jazz singers who provided soundtrack and felt expression to my angst and easily inflated/deflated sense of self, of beloved others, and of that new territory, independent life away from parental home and childhood community discovering, blundering into the fray of separate hearts and minds, irresponsible genitals and insouciant jouissance ('juiciness', in French) , discovering then and again and again that like Walt Whitman I 'contain worlds' and many disparate selves poorly formed, most of them collective projections and expectations of who or what I wanted to be, what others wanted and expected me to be, resulting in much confusion, tumult and multitudes of momentary throw-away selves. Thus singers like Bessie Smith and Dinah Washington became anchors, warm contexts and containers, for my daily fragmentation and re-formation.

I lived on 3rd street in downtown Chattanooga, a refugee from zealous, politically conservative white evangelicals and the vestigial yet still viral Southern Confederacy. Just a block or two from where Bessie Smith was born, I used to watch from my upstairs porch the steep hilly street's comings and goings with a glimpse of the Tennessee River between tenements across the street, its persistent rich aroma heavy in the air. I imagined Bessie Smith as a little girl playing up and down the street like the kids I saw then - once, two of them gleefully chasing a frighteningly large and confused looking rat.

William—he insisted on 'Willie'—an old man down the street who knew Bessie as a little girl, used to come up to my porch after one day hearing Bessie from my phonograph singing blues onto the always busy but attentive street. One of the first and permanent things I learned from my porch is that a city street has keen, observant eyes, acute ears, omnivorously seeing/hearing everything, indifferently, perhaps, but nothing escapes it, a roving, all-knowing urban Eye of God.

Extremely green and eager as green always is though stutteringly, and without apology, I enjoyed Willie's many stories and back pocket bottles of Old Mr. Boston Apricot Brandy, both of which—story and spirits/spirited story —dissolved or appeared to, age, racial, cultural, and sociological differences, along with those catalysts/cata-lusts, the forever alchemical Bessie and other jazz singers, Billie! Dinah! Ella! Sassy! Lil Ester Phillips! Nina Simone! to name only a few of the sensuous solutio chanteuses resolving sexual confoundaries by Miss-ambiguating sins' plethera with loose lilt and will- o-the-lisp whisper tongues.

One night Willie, much 'in the pocket'—an expression for being well onto tipsy which I've never heard from anyone but him—wanted to dance to a Bessie tune playing, 'Back Water Blues', him recalling nights as a young man in rural Tennessee where he'd worked hard days in oppressive vegetable fields then hit the after hours juke joints for 'colored, twas segregation days, ' he explained, where he would go to drink, dance then dive/delve, as it were, into the sensual mysteries of moist skin, hot breath, mutually open mouths with their commodious moans and mumbles, venial hands, always vital parts, private hearts mutually pounding ancient known rhythms, odors and tastes of gin and those slender, forbidden, now greedily stolen bites in those all too short nights with their damned intrusive dawns.

'Dawnus interuptus, ' I quipped, us both slapping knees, passing the narrative bottle fore and aft hefting moments re-grasped between us, offerings to the equally narrative river, the all-knowing hungry street.

Jumping to his feet, Willie described 'powder dancin'' (pronounced marvelously, 'powdah') which I had never heard of. Talcum powder would be copiously scattered onto the dance floor where couples in stocking or bare feet would ecstatically dance, gliding and sliding sweetly scented, muskily bent toward later glides and slides in the slippery joy of momentary allure and amour on dimmed porches or surrounding woods often enough and gratis upon delicate slabs of moonlight gratuitously dewy providing cushion for Passion's out and in, honoring and dignifying deities of skin wanting more making more skin, headlong Nature's frictional algo-rhythms indelibly scored in every/each his/her yawing yen.

Willie shouted, 'YOU GOT ANY TALC POWDER? ! '

...The jazz us trembled...

'NO! ' I bellowed, curious.

'YOU GOT ANY FLOUR? ! '

Even more curious, 'YEAH! ! '

'GO GIT IT! QUICK! ! '

He grinned an Old Mr. Boston juke-joint night-memories quaff-again grin.

Martha White, a brand of flour sold down South, has never been put to better use. Willie threw handfuls of 'Martha' over the tenement-planked living room floor as I half protested at the mess it (and me and Willie) was and would become. Completely gripped by his present-in-the-past brandy trance, a much younger man now, he suddenly grabbed me, brandied and tranced, too, my long hair flying, and danced me all over the floor the night through with swigs of Old But Now Spry 'n' Sprightly Mr. Boston with pauses to change record albums on the phonograph, 'catching up our breaths, ' he panted.

Next morning (more likely early afternoon) , Willie long gone, I awakened sprawled on the penitent porch—a cool concrete floor my sinner's bench—sweaty and thick as pan gravy, mosquito bitten, marinaded in Tennessee night mists. I staggered into the living room onto the ghostly floor powdery white, 'stroked' with two attached, or close to, sets of foot prints, heel slides and smears, a kind of 'Jackson Pollock meets Tibetan sand painting 'yazzed' yantra'**' with cigarette ashes flicked into the flickering impermanent mix. I've not powder danced since when we drank discovering oral history's joys, opened eager ears and fraternal arms forgetting fears of race and religion, age and expressed/ espressed Desire's multilingual disseminations.

I know that wheat is anciently sacred but now even more so for flour, the sight and feel of it, its unbaked smell, turns me again toward a Chattanooga 3rd street, its compass river swelling like bread nearby bearing witness still for one cannot say too much about rivers—their irreverence of edges scored, spilling themselves, proclaiming natural gods deeper than memory yet dependent upon it for traced they must be in every human activity, no matter the breech, for something there is to teach even deity though it may be wrong to do so, or hearsay to say it or sing, but the song is there for those whose ears are broken onto bottoms from which cry urgencies of Being and between, dutiful banks barely containing the straining Word.

**From Tibetan Buddhism. Visual meditation devices,
Yantras function as revelatory conduits of cosmic truths.

1. To Bessie Smith,3rd Street Chattanooga (circa 1971)

Already the river begins its sweat.
April to September I'll be on the porch
Come sunsets listening to cars in the
Dark and you, remembering the flour
On the floor and me and Willie in
Stocking feet dancing till dawn,

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poem by Warren Falcon
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University Of Central Florida Volleyball

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poem by Caasder Fronds
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