Jazz: I Heal

A jazz musician myself, I feel this strongly.

         Jazz: I Heal

I am jazz. I heal the soul

Of player – and of listener.

I, spontaneous, create a whole

From themes, small tunes,

Two bars, small strains…

I add to brain’s complexity.

I give the ear holistically simplicity,

The hearer symbiosis.

 

I am jazz, a riff.

The opposite of stiff,

Flexibility personified,

I move without, within a chord.

I must be heard to be appreciated.

Played to be created.

I love to share my air

And air my song.

I can’t go wrong –

From Dixie, swing to bebop,

I change with the times that show up,

For, as jazz, I’m real,

And I heal.

Jazz: I Heal 1.8.2018 Vaguely About Music II; Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ll Never Be A Virtuoso

           I’ll Never Be A Virtuoso

(Notes from a Piano Playing/Singer/Poet)

I’ll never be a virtuoso.

Sure as I’m an expert on

My name, my palm – I know it.

So I ponder as I listen to

Michel Petrucciani on piano,

Joe Pass on guitar,

Wayne Shorter on the tenor –

Am I any less an artist sans finesse

If runs, uneven, coarse run out into the sand?

Of course not.

Never to become a virtuoso is my lot.

 

But I’ve a lot that’s going for me:

Tempos, energy,

Out-coming spontaneity,

Ongoing creativity, ingoing spirit,

And an awfully cheerful personality;

Gifts and graces I don’t even know about,

Waiting to come out – or out.

 

Noel Coward wrote: ‘the talent to amuse’….

Perhaps I use that talent,

And there’s nothing wrong with that.

 

My notes are high while not the highest,

Vocabulary not extensive,

Not the most imaginative;

IQ slightly more superior than Pooh’s:

Who cares?

(That’s not a question but an exclamation).

Never virtuoso, I shall be the one

Who wears her brain upon her sleeve,

Her heart her slave.

 

Somewhat below, above so-so,

I know I’ll never be a virtuoso.

I can live with that.

I’ll Never Be A Virtuoso 5.21.2014 Vaguely About Music II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Pure Nakedness; Arlene Corwin

Flawed

It may be right to be ‘a little mad’.  

         Flawed

Listening to Thelonius Monk.

(Give him a try –

If you haven’t already)

I myself am sunk

In heaven.

(or is it ‘raised’)

Anything for a rhyme

Anytime.)

Ouch!

Anyway, there’s genius

In being flawed:

In honesty, in bravery –

Wrong notes,

Strong, short, long notes;

Flatted fifths, half-tones the chord;

Finger placement – absurd.

Who can be bored!

Who cares?

He dares.

Stares into space,

Jumps up and down,

No smile, no frown –

He plays his junk,

Always a Monk – Thelonius..

And so I sit in pillowed bed,

Caffeinated (to my toes and head),

Cogitating.

Letting, simply letting…

Waiting, writing

With an honesty and spunk (see Monk, sunk, junk)

Flawed to the gills.

Hmm, sills, bills, chills, kills…hmm.

 Flawed 11.19.2017

A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Vaguely About Music II;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gifted But Out Of Tune

 

Doctor: “What can you expect?

You’re eighty-two! Accept it!

Vocal cords, no longer tighten.

Yours will never close again.”

 

Goodness knows, boy, do I know it!

Unpredictable, quixotic.

Coming, going, throwing

Intonation out the window.

 

Eighty-two, all soon to be

An eighty- three.

Must Corwin flee because of age?

Flee the stage because of age?

Damn, no!

Today, tomorrow,

She says no to going!

 

Sings her heart out – when she can.

Songs fantastic; jazzy, cool,

Breaking rule harmonic

For the music and the fun of it.

But voice, alas, hard to control,

Its life so unconnected to the whole.

 

Bitch pitch, stich with crooked seam;

Bad, sad, how she sorely wants to scream.

She doesn’t.   Giving out the gifts from heaven,

Hearing flaws – now a given.

Focusing

on now and only…

Singing, playing joyfully;

Doing when and how,

She crowns the gig and takes a bow.

Gifted But Out Of Tune 10.7.2017

Vaguely About Music II; Pure Nakedness; Circling Round Aging;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

OnceI Write ‘Em

 

Once I write ‘em,

I don’t read ‘em.

If you’ve had a feast,

You don’t go back to feast again –

At least not feast selfsame.

Eaten’s eaten,

Drunk is drunk.

The yester- feast a kind of bunk

When looked at and reflected.

Looked at un-corrected.

 

Nothing’s wrong

With bettering that song,

Polishing and honing,

Yes, fine-tuning.

 

Last night’s feast had too much salt.

You won’t do that again,

Fix the fault

But write some more.

More’s the door

To consummation.

Less salt to improved digestion.

 

Break the silence, the taboos.

Make the ‘boo boos’.

Keep on going

In the imperceptibility of growing.

Cook the feast.

Release the moment’s best

And once you write ‘em,

Leave ‘em.

Once I Write ‘Em 9.13.2017

A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Vaguely About Music II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking Meditative II;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

A World Full Of Beautiful Songs

There is a world full of beautiful songs

Out there;

Each more sweetly silencing

And bringing forth

More tears than t’other.

Myrrh

Mellifluous as fragrant honey.

Money cannot make or buy it:

Songs so lyrical you cry at

Hearing.

 

The child, sensitive and innocent

Of harmonies and reading notes

Looks back on songs she learned by rote,

With warmth and ardor.

Learned by heart,

They weren’t hard to memorize.

Their beauty struck a chord

The size of don’t-know-what.

 

Sweet song or hot,

A taste for this, a taste for that;

It’s music that gave solace,

Reassurance, dancing feet.

World full of song and beat,

Time complete.

 

There is a world of euphony

And melody

To sing about.

 

A World Full Of Beautiful Songs 8.25.2017

Vaguely About Music II; Nature Of & In Reality;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

,

My Jazz Has Changed

       My Jazz Has Changed

My jazz has changed.

Warts and all,

Jazz is my call

Reflecting life’s endeavors.

I could never leave it.

I mature and it matures.

Meaning: freedom and invention.

Freedom of invention,

The sensation near ecstatic.

Who cares if I use elbows to create a chord?

No one!

Who cares if I make screw up,

Am not a nerd – part of the herd?

No one!

Everything is up to me, in me, from me –

Each note, each beat, each melody.

Coming each year, parting fear

That was and used to be there.

A ready leaving of control,

Letting an other whole come through.

The point is: no one knows or cares but you.

The freedom and invention where it should be

At the very point in history.

 

My Jazz Has Changed 4.16.2017

Vaguely About Music II;

Arlene Corwin

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