I am going to post a poem below about music in general and specifically about jazz. I think that my poetry might be more difficult to understand than I thought, so below the poem, I will take you through it and help you understand it.
What the poem describes really happened. I was driving home from work over a busy L.A. freeway.and an interview with John Coltrane came on the radio. I had never heard John Coltrane's speaking voice before. He moved me so much I had to pull off the freeway, park my car, and listen to him talk and then play "Green Dolphin Street." I felt as though I was listening to a god, but in retrospect I realize that I was listening to a man who had touched god, or at least come as close as the hand of Moses portrayed on the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican.
The poem was written much as jazz is played. No thoughts preceded the words. They simply came out in one flow without my thinking about or worrying about the meaning. Still it is one of my best poems and has been published several times. I think, like a jazz musician, I was able to develop a story and resolve it, from the inside out.
ON HEARING A RADIO INTERVIEW
WITH JOHN COLTRANE NOV. 13, 1985
stepping out of the past
on careful paws of a cat
hissing & scratching
thru car speakers
in the Sepulveda pass
a gospel intelligence
where family words
are polished in deep drums 4
he doesn't say it
but somehow I hear
that music wasn't doled
out over cloistered walls
it comes from the streets
where women's bodies
turn rags to style
I stop the car &
close my eyes
listening to Green Dolphin St.
& picture large black hands
like Icarus' wings
& think that grace lands anyplace
like snowflakes
promiscuously kissing faces
The first lines describe what @mahgister talked about earlier. Music is beyond an instrument or whatever produces it. It is something deep inside a person and it can be felt whether it is reproduced well or poorly. What could be more poorly produced than scratchy car speakers? And yet, something alive and feline stepped our of the speakers, a gospel (true) intelligence.This is how I heard Coltrane's persona.
stepping out of the past
on careful paws of a cat
hissing & scratching
thru car speakers
in the Sepulveda pass
a gospel intelligence
where family words
are polished in deep drums
In the next stanza I talk about how music was not doled out over "cloistered walls/ it comes from the streets/ where women's bodies turn rags to style." All music comes from the street, if we go back far enough. For so many years, European music was controlled by the church, and some masters were able to transcend the church's dogma. But certainly we can see jazz coming from the streets where women's bodies turn rags to style. Isn't that the truth? You get the right woman and put the right rags on her and you've got art, and music is art.
he doesn't say it
but somehow I hear
that music wasn't doled
out over cloistered walls
it comes from the streets
where women's bodies
turn rags to style
When I talk about Coltrane's hands like Icarus's wings, i didn't exactly know why I used that metaphor. If you'll remember, Icarus's father made him a pair of wings to fly but told him not to fly too close to the sun or the wings would melt. I watched more of Ken Burns' Jazz series last night, and repeated over and over again was how jazz musicians risk their lives on stage. They have no idea what they're doing. At any moment they could fall. After that, I knew my image of Icarus's wings was correct.
I stop the car &
close my eyes
listening to Green Dolphin St.
& picture large black hands
like Icarus' wings
I hate to sound hubristic, but these last lines I think are perhaps the best lines I've ever written. Again and again in the Jazz series, there were so many examples of great musicians that seemed so unlikely to be geniuses. it was as if they were touched by "snowflakes/ promiscuously kissing faces." Rude Miles Davis was kissed. Wasted Billie Holiday who would spend away her talent was kissed on the face by a promiscuous snowflake.
& think that grace lands anyplace
like snowflakes
promiscuously kissing faces
Hopefully this helped you understand this poem. If you want to take it further run the poem through chatgbt which is an amazing analyst of poems. It can't write one, but it can tell you about what is in a poem. Just type in "Tell me about this poem:"