AFTER TEACHING A 3-HOURCLASS IN TECHNICAL WRITING I DRIVE TOWARD HOME THINKING ABOUT HOW CHINESE POETS TITLE THEIR POEMS
Snow has stopped and clouds part for the moon’s arrival
a hawk drifts over the car in front of the crescent moon hanging low in the south
the quick of a nail in the dark blue flesh above the field
where nose to nose in shaggy winter coats two horses nuzzle
somewhere never this beautiful
Jazz and Wings
At the Skellar the students line up
for free wings but most leave
before the jazz starts and
I get a seat in the front row.
Sax, trumpet and trombone up front
blast out the familiar opening from
“Take the A Train” by Billy Strayhorn:
bom, bom, bom, bom, bom –
the evening begins on a fine note.
It’s as famous as the opening
of Beethoven’s Fifth –
for classical music fans:
bom bom bom bom.
I wish I could play
but I’m a listener
loving famous openings
my mouth burns
from the wings.
War of the Words
I sat in a ditch I’d dug for myself out of words and sneers where I let myself simmer, boil over cool down
She was a schwa an upside down e out of her place everywhere but the dictionary
She was solid, stolid stupid and hard her head like a jar screwed shut gone to Tennessee
She wanted a catapult she thought it was me but I was slack no bounce, no snap
She sat upside down her mind like honey counting up her money
Chanteuse of Birdland
That’s what I hear when I sigh. . . . flying high in Birdland
I sang along with all her records on my 45 player trying to hit the notes exactly like she did- sweet and solid.
I loved jazz, the ambience — smokey cellar clubs where late night exhaustion throbs with the melody twining around it like an improv.
the kind of magic we make
We’d drive to New York where 18 was legal, sit behind the rail to avoid the cover and seriously study how she stood at the mic, the way her mouth moved, her swaying stance, how her tone differed from records, the scratchy 45s on a wobbly table.
At the break because my friends bugged me’ I shambled up to her table, awkward, not daring to meet her eyes, shrinking further under her resignation, mumbling, I have all your records.
She made me feel as if I’d asked her to pee in a glass, the mellow disdain of her voice a spike in my ear.
I suppose she was on break wanting a cigarette and a chance to sit and relax, time to chat with her friend and this unlikely hump comes up wanting payback for buying her records.
Her dress was a pale shimmery green maybe half a size too small, her blonde hair like a GI’s helmet, the chanteuse of Birdland.
I have her name in blurry ballpoint on a napkin with Birdland stamped in the corner.
the magic music we make
Helen Ruggieri lives in upstate New York and has a new book of CNF from Woodthrush Books, Camping in the Galaxy. She teaches a poetry workshop at the African American Center for Cultural Development.