onto sheet extracts
its solid claims
like fish from a hyperbolic sea.
These men’s catch is passed on
to their wives for sale
and most are happy with this
arrangement.
So the wives dot the shoreline
with grin-like glints angling off
their hand-beaten aluminium pans
as their voices soar
over the collusion of waves
to sing out the price of fish.
the women wrap patterned cloth around
their breasts; the knots of which serve
as carriers for their earnings.
At night these women slide
money like dreams
into the men’s hands
to buy comfort
in alcoholic volumes.
and volumes of these sea blue
blooded men have passed unseen
to the other side.
it is said
that water maidens
in glowing raiment listen in
on their drunken speech
and cast blue spells
upon the disgruntled.
with woven diamond fingers
and meshes of cotton onyx hair
they hypnotise, their cowrie
beaded hips sinuous as waves
Their complexion is whatever the water gives
their touch is the toe caress of dying waves
their smile is sunset on an overturned horizon
and their kiss is a blend of amnesia and ambrosia.
These are the world’s greatest
beauties!
they leave men dumb-founded
floundering in invisible waves.
The disgruntled never re-emerge
they vanish after consecutive evenings seen
staring out over the sea – copper blue
like sub marine greek
statues.
Zest
Our Love is Here to Stay
Clouds gather under a blue moon,
like trouble brewing as strange fruit
continues to swing – keeping time –
while Columbia turntables refuse to spin
the song; is vinyl too black, too flash to be
sleeved in white prisons? The answer lies
like white gardenia petals on a bruise
too subtle to separate from wind; like
a trumpet caught in the ill wind of a jet’s
prejudice in the company of clouds – a
rumble in a jungle of noise, the forgotten b-
side that holds its breath. Trouble brewing.
There’s nothing random about rain;
It clears the sky’s throat for the sun’s shrill
voice; the white hanky is for black sweat.
They’ll all laugh when I say it, whisper
as though I’m making whoopee with Communist
ideals. They’ll laugh like they laughed
when Louis appeared coal-sketched on screen,
years before he lifted the smoke and called
Eisenhower a spade, said let’s call the whole
Soviet thing off, as sweetly as he sang that song
with Ella ___ and there’s silence where the applause
should be; because it’s OK when the needle hits
the dark flesh of wax and causes blue screams,
but when the tip hits the dark flesh of a woman
and she wails for justice; shooting off ideas
as she reloads stimulants, suddenly music is
treble trouble. And everybody knows
that the calm comes before the clouds…
There’s nothing random about rain; so blow
Louis, blow from cheek to cheek, blow
under a blanket of blue until you get a kick
from a laughing Ella and switch the tone
so swift // so hot // so dark
that the only bright thing will be the spotlight
of struggle illuminating a girl in Baltimore,
learning as time goes by that life isn’t a fine
romance, love, but your soul won’t desert you;
like the note can’t leave the music, like
the shadows can’t leave the darkness.
The secret is to listen; to the slow creeping
embrace of the trumpet’s protest, the percussive
defiance of the piano’s syncopation, the indrawn
breaths when the song learns the body that sings it.
Crossroad vs Blues
(or You Wouldn’t Talk About Crossroads If You Knew My Life)
“I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees
...standin’ at the crossroad, tried to flag a ride...
didn’t nobody seem to know me, babe, everybody pass me by” – Robert Johnson
Belly
I see a road growing branches, but these hands sure can swing an axe
I see a jungle of confusion, but these hands still can swing an axe
Come hell or highest water, I’ll still be on the road making tracks
I came up on Fannin’ Street, with just a guitar and walking shoes
All the halls and saloons in Bottom, with a guitar and walking shoes
(I) met ’leggers, girls and hustlers, came away singing Shreveport blues
Got mighty fine stories stranger; I don’t need to make no deals
Got a chain of chanting work songs; I don’t need to make no deals
Hand me my 12-string over yonder; I’ll show how the blues are meant to feel
It’s Huddie, Sal’s little boy, but e’erybody calls me Lead Belly
I’m promised to sweet Martha, but on the road I’m Lead Belly
Even jailers couldn’t hold me, once I made them hear me clearly.
Buddy
I picked balls before strings, so my tunes all carry weight
I started with diddly, arms strong from lifting cotton bales
Two-fifty to the two-string, all my stories carry weight
I crossed roads with my tow truck, but I never hung around
Baton Rouge to Chicago, Friendly Chap never hung around
If you needed to find me, I was where the folks was brown
I cook a mean rack of ribs; I learned that from my mama
(I) play a polka dot Strat; I do that for my mama
and I don’t need to do no deals, don’t need that type of drama
I learned the licks by listening, then plucking by ear
I’ve been playing these blues ten dozen nights a year
When streets are bare and night has fallen, I’ll still be playing right here.
Rosetta
I was told I’d see some creature; all I see is a raft
I was warned to take a preacher; all I see’s a bobbing raft
I don’t need no floating lyrics cos I was born with the craft
Had my own words since I was four; in church I made my voice strong
Had an axe since I was four; it’s how this girl got her freedom
I don’t need no outside hand, cos I build my own kingdom
Who needs a night devil when a girl’s got black magic?
Who needs a night devil when a girl’s got black magic?
Don’t it take you close to heaven when you hear my guitar lick?
I take light into the dark, I see strange things everyday
(I) take my Gibson into basements, I see strange things everyday
I rock harder than high rollers, but the blues showed me the way
Stevie
Had a mean old daddy, his hands rained pretty heavy
Had a sour-faced old man, whose palms were rough and heavy
I learned real, real quick, Stevie gotta take care of Stevie
As a boy I turned to Mama, but she was weak for his kisses
See, Mama had a strong arm, but she was weak for his kisses
A sharecropper’s g
irl, she sure knew what the blues is
Cos Mama wouldn’t leave him, we were caught at his crossroad
(Me) and my brother Jimmy, used guitars to find our slip road
Till spinning crossroads come for me, I’ll be on the road
When it comes down to choosing, I’m my mama’s boy
Don’t waste my time with the devil, I am my mama’s boy
She couldn’t leave Daddy’s slow hand; I use my hands for joy.
Howling Wolf
Howling, howling, but I never saw no wolf
Red Rooster rustler, I’ve been howling since my youth
But when I found the blues in Patton, I knew I’d found the truth
What’s all this racket? All this talk of Devil deals?
I stand six-foot-three, look like the Devil’s nemesis
My mama’s rejection showed me what my path was
I played Lemon, I played Rainey, played every hour I could
Sonny Boy taught me harp, Charley’s licks made my guitar smooth
(I) got dragged into the army, but still made my way to school
Drove up to Chicago, with pockets full of dough
Paid everyone I played with, never cheated a soul
If I’m not in the spotlight, ask Lillie if I made it home.
Robert Johnson
Know that song of 27? First riff on that comes from me
and I’m an endless rambler, jump on every train I see
but I ain’t never met no devil, unless they came to see me
(I) played in many hellholes, still couldn’t pay my bills
Till 100 past my birthday, gals were my only other thrill
If you take away my music, there’s nothing more to reveal
In my head I hear boogie and turn it blue on my strings
Just like Zimmerman taught me, I pluck these blues from my strings
Watch me sing my heart out on corners, like an angel floats on wings
Call me invisible, call me ghost – you won’t forget my name
Number 11 of my mama’s children, you won’t forget my name
Hear blues, rock and roll playing and know I changed the game.
Ma Rainey
Can’t nobody hold me back, baby, Ma Rainey is my name
I always made my own damn way, Ma Rainey is my name
I wear a collar, tie and gold teeth when I come out to play
First hit me in Missouri, been singing the blues ever since
Gripped me like a lover’s thighs, I’ve been hooked ever since
Went on the road like See See Rider, my smile gleaming like flint
Did I come in April or September, Georgia or Alabama?
See I’m hard to pin down, I’m slippery as a spinning spectre
Why go to the crossroads when the world spins around my centre?
I’m the first, I’m the mama, I’m nobody’s coon shouter
Call me names, I’ll knock you down, you can’t prove it on me after
I worked hard, paid my dues, my songs will ring in the hereafter.
Slim Gaillard
Slim slam flim flam vouto is my McVouty voodoo
If you know the blues, ain’t no need to translate for you
You can jive and have a ball, it still reaches into you
Every pack has a wildcard and I ran wild all my life
If you ask me what the blues is, I’ll open the book of my life
Stranded in Greece as a boy, but, man, I turned out fine
My guitar weeps blues, my voice scats in jazz
If music were a crossroad, I’d be the question to ask
There’s no deal to hold down a language that moves so fast
The twelve-bar is everybody’s bar; we all drink out there
Jelly Roll, Louis and Duke, they all hang out there
I scat around the crossroad, cos there’s no devil to fear.
Muddy Waters
My grandmama called me Muddy, the Waters came with the harp
You might think you know my blues, but you don’t know the half
(A) sharecropper’s measly wages is how I bought my first guitar
Had my own joint by eighteen, listened to the blues all day through
Like the waters of the Mississippi, the flow of it stays inside you
Anyone from the hell of plantations, loves water and feels the blues
A boy raised in hell don’t make deals with the devil on the side
(I) heard my own voice played on the juke and knew I had heaven inside
Stayed with my grandmama a little longer, but I knew I had heaven inside
Only deals I ever make are with good ole Willie Dixon
He gives me all the right words when my blues need fixing
My archive runs deep as water, all rolling stones need my benediction.
Big Mama Thornton
A church singer’s daughter from Alabama, I’m the original Big Mama
Bessie Smith and Memphis Minnie, their voices were my teachers
I can sing high, I can sing low, cos my daddy was a preacher
I was on stage before Elvis, he ain’t nothing but my hind dog, I say
And when Janis Joplin copied Ball & Chain, Bay-Tree took all the money
When you’ve met real-life devils, who needs to go to the crossroads to play?
I can beat my own drum and I play the harp pretty good
I made music with all the good guys, with Muddy and BB too
And everybody knows I don’t need no microphone to sing my blues
You’ll find me where there’s good singing and the liquor supply’s ample
I may not be wearing no dress, but you’ll know me by my dimple
Feet on the ground, singing from my heart; I’m one of the blues’s finest examples.
East Texas streets is where I fine-tuned my blues
In bootleg corners with bad men and fine women, a blind man singing blues
Couldn’t work with the sharecroppers so this is how I put my hands to use
Been at a hundred crossroads, but I ain’t heard nothing but revelling
Stories about devils is how they pretend we didn’t rise by struggling
I’ll record 100 songs in thirty-six months and every one will be sterling
See I’m so damn original, even the devil couldn’t copy me
With my quick-fingered magic, there ain’t many that can play like me
When B.B. King holds Lucille sometimes he tries to sound like me
They call me Blind Lemon Jefferson, sweet and high is how I sing
When T-Bone was starting out, he walked with me and I guided him
My sound is so indescribable, I leave black snakes moaning.
Big Bill Broonzy
Odd jobs by day, guitar by night; that’s how I made it
One of seventeen kids, I know how to work till I make it
From the fiddle to the guitar, I pulled strings till I nailed it
Played the two-stages but went to war for everyone as one
Now I write my own tunes; don’t need no crossroads plan
Got rights to more than 300 songs and the devil ain’t got none
(I) got the keys to the highway so I ain’t afraid of the road
Opening for folks who don’t know struggle, but I ain’t afraid of the road
I’ve got a boy out down under; I made him on the road
Got the blues from childhood and I’ve played it near thirty years
I cooked, swept and carried loads. but the blues still rang in my ears
So I picked up this guitar and you’ll be hearing me for years.
Interpretation
You must not have heard
the one about the butcher who became
a classical conductor: it is
said he coaxed blood from warm flesh
the same way he makes strings whine
and horns mimic a bull’s lament in allegro.
His
feeling for time signatures as true
and unshifting as an Accra sunset,
you can set a seed’s germination into pale
clef-shaped shoot by his baton,
his restless foot, the shapes his body forms
as he conjures sound and silence.
Audiences flock to see him lead
virtuosos from the highest high to the deep;
he gives new life to the Mendelssohn woman –
Fanny – buries old notions of Beethoven and Rachmaninov,
but, as with all music, interpretation varies
and the historic question hovers always in the air
like a trenchant treble in an echo chamber
of wonder. Was he a butcher of livestock
or of men? Was his past work in an abattoir
or a boardroom? Did any of his victims
lean their heads into the curve of a melody,
sun striking one ear, tuned for the song’s end?
#Labour
Two girls are tending a sick calf, kneeling
in the direction of Mecca. I would call it
worship, except religions have spoiled the heart
of these simple acts; of a body moving and finding
orientation; of hands placed on flesh to help
with healing. A haze of dust hangs in the air,
the criss-cross sticks of a Moringa fence makes a grid
that frames their labour. The calf is twisting, but still
– although there is no sign of its mother. One girl
strokes its back. Her scarf is made from a piece
of Presbyterian Church anniversary cloth. The other
girl wears knock off Off-White trainers; conceived
by a designer favoured by Rihanna and Louis Vuitton,
an Ablorh with family roots enshrined less than 400km
away from the earth she crouches on. With coaxing, the calf
finds its feet. Unsteady at first, it regains balance and turns
to lick the hand of the Presbyterian girl. Both girls
dust off their long, bright skirts, rising as the sun sets.
Moonwalk
Once you nail it, you’re hooked as a baby
that’s discovered rhythm; round a bright corner
and back; in the middle of a mate’s party
the crowd parting as if you have dark wands