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Click hereWhy all that jazz?
Everyone asks, thinks
maybe it's a crutch,
but you have to listen
to understand that
when it swings mad
it's controlled wild,
screaming like loons
from the secret structure
of someone's imagination.
You get to go there, fly
down to it, sail across it,
lose yourself winging
your own dips
and graceful spins.
The cool liquid changes
when it cries soft
as yellow fog, curling
around memory. Ghosts
who usually live
in the next room
step in to hold you
faint as smoke, whisper
their stories one more
time you have to listen
to understand. It's a river.
It pulls you with tides,
and deep underneath
it's all blue, sad
in a minor way,
but enveloping as peace,
low as life.
You can stretch yourself
around it, let it move
your limbs, carry you
in a sway of somewhere
you've never been
but for that space
of song.
This poem gets you under the skin and into the soul of jazz in a moody, solacing way. I could see it as a lead poem in a collection of your poems about music.
I came back for a quick read. You have to understand
many people have no needs for soul moving music since
they have no soul in need of saving. Don't worry, keep
preaching to the choir. I love this, it is true.