Jazz in Breda Funky club jazz band Sonic Soul Tight musical Outfit With a loose attitude Short singer w/a Strong leader capacity Smooth soothing voice Drummer w/a striped shirt and Seventies asymmetrical haircut Jumpy keyboard player Streetwise attitude Bass player Funky rocking guitar guy Jazz is a flavour that I dip in Guinness The quartet was covering a broad spectrum of songs And styles and sounds All dipped in the small club jazz/funk/ Rock pool Irish pub on jazz And I w/Guinness in hand Tapping my foot And then my other foot Again And then my first foot again Bobbing my head Singing along to the Bill Withers' Lovely Day funkjazzcool cover Jazz is a colour Bebop bebop bebop and Beauty's in abundance in Breda The market square Where cool daddios and once Hot mamas hung on to their Jeans and pants and shirts of Way back when... Where during the break The drummer of aforementioned band Told me he never played with These guys Before Doowop doowop So much for tight outfits And my knowledge of them Jazz in Breda And I am out there Once again Dadoo dadoo
(Breda Jazz Festival 2007. Always an annual happening with unexpected happy discoveries of music and (wo)men, where this year I got to know some more about jazz and life and me.)
Put down the words in a poetical Way & try to do this on a daily If not weekly basis They do not need to be fully rounded Pieces Just fragments mirroring the moments Bits of conversation Parts of thoughts or feelings Flowing on the pages Waterproof Indian ink Made in Holland 115 Exercises in the self Find the time Do the rhyme Make it mine
From abstinence I take my Leave Degree was shak'd and shak'd Again Continued state of lethargy That came full stop Just now - Not to think of sliver linings Roses on a smoothed path - Not to see the cold sun shining Buried deep my troubles past - With strength renewed Climatic pulse Eyes that opened Aged and fresh - Life blood pumping/raging inside Eyes have opened & staring wide This cyclus so familiar now Internal season change - I've come from winterland Into Revigourating Spring again This commonplace holds true for me So oh so boringly true that I almost feel obliged to ask Foregiveness if it wasn't for the Fact that I haven't got the Slightest inclination to whom I Should address my so sincere Apology I could invoke Apollo and The muses nine on mountain top And offer them my humble self I steered away from poetry And feel repentant about that And maybe only that - I'll search some more in my Cleaned up Room And will let you know all that I Stumble across ----
From St Briavel's castle Where John had his stay To Brecon Beacons Cross blood clay country Where the signposts sing out In praise of small towns Lydney & Sling & Coleford And Chepstow & Symonds Yat Where Sunday lunch and Carvery are the common facts Of life (blood) Along the road A Roman way Steeped in history and pain To the Perrygrove railway And the Forest of Dean Where I had squid and Egg fried rice Served by a 13 year old Small and slim Chinese boy In The Schooner Where two white horses Are blanketed While they wait for their riders To take them on a trip Cross the fields Where sheep are in abundance And new born lambs (blood) Spring Some penned in Stone walled Where the traffic Signs Bilingual 500 yards 500 llath and Abergavenny Our next stop At Tesco Metro To buy a ploughman's lunch is Still 17 miles to go Passed the famous Crickhowel village well Famous in my world at least And the blood theme Is captured in a single Image of a fox Or rather the coagulated Scrapings of a fox On the A40 Roman blood Medieval blood Modern blood I can do my bleeding Silently On the inside now The blood has stained the Clay Remoulding me
St Martin in the fields Chimes its bells And I'm on the steps Between Nelson's column And the National Gallery The bells bellow An urgency A crescendo pattern That speaks directly To my emotional self The tempo is Uneasing me Disturbing me What's the emergency? When will it stop? Where's the fire? For God's sake? It's like a magnet Switching poles Attraction and Repulsion Come hither Go thither And I look at the blue Dial With its golden Roman Numerals and I hear the fountains Nicely symmetrical Splashing down the waters And the spray Occasionally reaches me Here on the steps While the crane that helps Renovate the church Gently sways its Chain The Canada House People about England's lions Watchful Happy smiling people Who obviously don't hear The knot-twisting-stomach- Aching Rhythm of the bells Incessantly To me Nelson's cracked It seems Must have a closer look Did it crack Because he too Felt the Angst of St Martin?
(This is a very recent poem on which I cannot yet comment, save that again, this is/was a real experience for me.)
