Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

when the circuits are overloaded
with more demands - academic, literary,
familial - than there are hours in the day -
the chest is tightening and it's too late
to fit in, against all logic, a swim at
the ymca - it's time to give up on it,
turn the taurus up the 405 to the jazz
bakery where escape awaits in the guise
of terence blanchard showcasing his new
c.d., jazz in film. i'll lose myself
in unexpected harmonies and drum-beats,
as formerly i did in vodka-tonics.

as once, as a young man,
i'd lose myself in movies
and their scores: animal force
overpowering illusion, innocence,
vulnerability, the anima in streetcar,
a new orleans that still lies ahead
for me; in chinatown, the powerful
win once again, except that, as hemingway
insisted, the winner ultimately takes
home nothing anyway. the pawnbroker-
rod steiger, quincy jones' first score -
i wonder how many others can lay claim to
having read all five of edward lewis wallant's
novels, gray on black? and the subterraneans?
my favorite kerouac in spite of the sell-out
ending of the film... they couldn't quite
destroy the themes of andré previn,
the flesh-reality of shelly manne and his men,

that fledgling era of the beatnik dives,
nativity of the white negro...

degas' racing world,
that never got released,
but the score,
like that of anatomy of a murder,
by ellington,
the always elegant and eloquent,
american royalty,
unintimidated by the racists,
embodiment of urban soul and
european post-impressionism,
the delta and débussy,
parker and picasso,
newport and the new wave,
pictures from an exhibition
of the human fashion show.

the man with the golden arm?
sinatra, preminger, nelson algren
(lover of simone de beauvoir)
elmer bernstein, of course...
jazz and drugs, drugs and jazz,
before the entire nation sold its soul
to one pharmacist or another,
outlawed or licensed by
the government and pharmaceutical giants,
when there still seemed to be adventure to it,
enigma, tragedy, transcendence,
not the amplified thud of resounding defeat.

and clockers,
blanchard's own score,
spike lee trying to unravel,
through family,
the new web of rap and drugs,
drugs and hip-hop,
drugs and jazz still, but not so much
anymore among the young and savvy...

let's call the roll of those
as yet unnamed: alex north,
jerry goldsmith, bernard hermann...

donald harrison, joe henderson,
steve turre, kenny kirkland,
reginald veal, carl allen...

pure pleasure,
reverie,
respite from the wolves,
solace from a corporate world's sahara,

benign, benevolent intoxication,
making good times even better,
rendering the bad ones tolerable,
refreshment in an alpha-wave oasis,
lubrication for the lubrications,
salve for the synapses,
unsought absolution,
a world that one can occupy alone,
a world of one's own
in a room of such worlds...

i'll get a little sleep tonight,
a better sleep,
tomorrow purchase the c.d.
good jazz requires getting used to,
letting it become part of oneself.

with jazz and swimming,
alpha-waves and endorphins,
and maybe add deep breathing,
maybe even yoga (though that could
be stretching it - ha, ha),

i'll re-learn how to say,
without the benefit of alcohol,
fuck it to it all.