Music and PoetryIf Mozart were alive

He’d be applying lead guitar,Dancing in the spotlight and prancing like a star.

His air would be dyed purpleAnd his music would be bold.

If Mozart were aliveHe’d be playing rock and roll.

--Brod Bagert

Discover the “generation gap”

Jazz FantasiaDrum on your drums, batter on your banjoes,sob on the long cool winding saxophones.Go to it, O jazzmen.

Sling your knuckles on the bottoms of the happytin pans, let your trombones ooze, and go husha-husha-hush with the slippery sand-paper.

Moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops,moan soft like you wanted somebody terrible, cry like aracing car slipping away from a motorcycle cop, bang-bang!you jazzmen, bang altogether drums, traps, banjoes, horns,tin cans — make two people fight on the top of a stairwayand scratch each other's eyes in a clinch tumbling downthe stairs.

Can the rough stuff . . . now a Mississippi steamboat pushesup the night river with a hoo-hoo-hoo-oo . . . and the greenlanterns calling to the high soft stars . . . a red moon rideson the humps of the low river hills . . . go to it, O jazzmen.

--Carl Sandburg

Jazz PoemsBy Roger Singer

 When Songs Repeat

An evening breeze,Lazy with attitudeRolled quietlyOver tree tops,While music runs thickLike spiced gumbo,Making the airSmell of jazz. A pearl coveredWorn harmonica,Like the frayed collarOr a work shirtBreathed with intention,Gasping at notes,Pulling them hardInto blended sounds. A man with a guitarHalf humming wordsAnd speaking others,Brushed his stringsWhile his foot slappedDirt into dustAnd smiled rightlyLike a Sunday sermon. Teams of firefliesDodged running children,While the fat tailOf a dozing catStirred restlesslyLike tossing mindsOn moist nightsWhen songs repeat.

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Like a Snake The bandLines upWith hornsIn frontLike soldiersWithout gunsLifting airAnd blowingLife intoWaiting earsWhile The skinsFrom the Drummer snapTo attentionAnd the pianoMan dancesHis troubledThin fingersMaking dreamsCome trueAs the bass Strums fatAt the sideWhere shadowsSpit and swirlLike a snakeFeeling the Vibes withHis tongueThen slithers To the MicrophoneBelting out A jazzy tune.

 

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Second Row Seat The voice of jazzSmiled faintly,Strummed lightlyFrom stringsOf a moaning bassOnto my ears with delight. Piano notesLike blackLong wingedDrifting fire fliesTouched my soulWith finger taps. Sizzling cymbals,Heart beat vibrations,Sounds thin and long,Filaments of life,A slice of pie,And a frosted glass of beer. Loose collars,Shirt sleevesRolled back, Like the rhythm,Washing over me,In my second row seat.

 

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Trombone Man Gray moons falling,Reflections jumpFrom the curve Of the trombone Onto lovers eyesAt tables in shadows.

Fans on the ceiling,Smoky air propellers,Spinning planetsWith wooden wingsLazily twirlOver dancers far below. Blackened windowsSeal the outsideFrom enteringWhere jazz playersCreate curtains with notesFanning the crowd. The trombone With its curves,Slides into levelsLike children and candy;Licks and sweetness,Lips and tongues. Hips sway in lust,While sweaty palmsPlay patting jubaOn willing thighsAs fat windsSoak the air.