The Homeless Saxophonist

[Sampson]

late last night, as i wandered
back to where ever it is i currently
hang my hat, i found myself victim
of a plot to entrap aimlessly, drunkenly
meandering minds
with the strangest brand of midnight
blues, hard notes float muted cityscape
while i stumble and pace my way
to the source of this hard blown
force coursing though my being
in itself blowing me further
into the night and out of my mind
as i traced ancestors' steps on
grey concrete turned a hundred corners
wore the soles of my boots down
to my bare feet before my eye caught
a glint in a side street

and i saw him, his eyes wide
with a certain wise kind of
peace with the bleak city street
on which he stood
he was a man who knew
that good and evil
are constructions
much the same as the
brickwork background
to which he played...

and his tattered clothes betrayed
his plight, but he wore them
like robes as he blew his blues
to the deepest blues of the night,
and as i dazedly approached
i could taste sweet reefer smoke
thick in the air, i could barely
believe i was really there as
i stopped on the opposite side
of the road and held his gaze
as he continued to play, completely
unfazed, and i knew exactly
what he was trying to say
with this down pace solo, blown slow
...said he knew
that strangers came and went
but only friends are heaven sent
and with this heavy sentiment
settling my unsteady frame
i stepped into the road and
crossed over to ask this man
his name, i watched, waited,
while he played the last notes
of the evening before laying his
tarnished golden glowing saxophone
in an empty case, open at his feet
and then finally he turned to address me
with his wise eyes he assessed me seeing
that i wasn't necessarily there for a reason

"Boy, you know why i stand alone
in this bitter cold?
why i blow my soul to
empty space and then
sleep with my sax case
as a pillow? do you know?
because i sure as hell don't
i've collected theories
used dope as a microscope
to examine them clearly
but conclusion eluded me
consistently so i really
just don't know
but i still feel like
like there's always
another note to blow"

[PrinceMyshkin]

I loved the rambling quality of this, the playfully erratic rhyming, wasn't always crazy about where you chose to break your lines, but I'm especially fond of your closing lines:


but i still feel like
like there's always
another note to blow"

Hope that by bringing this back to the head of the queue, I'll invite more responses.

[Sampson]

Thank you Prince! The layout to this poem has been cause of great debate around my dinner table. I wrote it pretty much rhyme for rhyme, but my Dad suggested that I play with the format and the line breaks. The ends seems quite effective, but it still seems like the beginning needs some tightening up...

[AuntShecky]

Is this a contemporary piece (meaning set in the present, 2010) or is is set when jazz was at its flowering (late 40s, early 50s.) If the former, the use of lower-case i for "I" is old-fashioned, which over the years has become over-used and trite as a way of being non-conventional. Nowadays uncapitalized "i" looks quaint, as do no-longer-hip terms such as "reefer."

I think I see how your line breaks try to recapitulate the notes and measures played by a jazz soloist, but it such an effect could be improved by imitating more closely the
"phrasing" employed by musicians -- call and
response,improvisation,repetition,"riffs, "sampling" of notes from other tunes, rhythmical and time changes etc. Your poem is a good try, though, and you can make your revision more "musical" and jazzy.

Read some poems by Langston Hughes, Gregory Corso, Kenneth Rexroth, etc. which might give you some ideas of how to imitate jazz forms in your poetry. Also, listen to Miles, Sonny Rollins, Monk
for some insight on how better to undertake your
laudable(!) endeavor.

Thanks for posting this.

[Sampson]

cheers for the feedback auntshecky... i was never trying to imitate jazz, i was simply telling a story. honestly i came up with the title on the way back from the pub one night and wrote the poem when i got home. i write mostly in a hip hop style, influenced by many of the poets and musicians you mentioned... if anything, its best when put up to a down tempo drum beat. the imagery was the main focus in this piece (for once). and the "i"s which appear through the poem are more a factor of my own style than anything else; i only really use caps when i want to make a point.

Oh, and "reefer" may no longer be "hip", but it'll always mean the same thing (:

[AuntShecky]

OK, Sampson, thanks for your nice reply. I was merely making suggestions on how the form might better fit the subject matter. But even if you decide not to revise this poem, if you get a chance please check out the jazz tones and rhythms of this poem by Kenneth Koch:

http://www.cstone.net/~poems/sleepkoc.htm