Wednesday, December 9th, 2009...1:24 am
roger singer | the hurt song & other poems
THE HURT SONG
The roots of the hurt song
snares the ankles of me, trapping me
in a tangle; the twisting binds me
tighter as the visions speak.The arrows of my jazz strikes from
hotel room shadows; strange faces
angrily cross over me.
Towns fail to call me home.
My hands are suitcases, reaching to go.My foot slaps to the beat of release,
like a window of escape or a road
leading away.Behind my face the music builds,
filling the back parts of me,
releasing on the stairs of my steps
where I see it all.
LOOKING DOWN
Without the singing,
the song is a child without a voice.Like an easterly sun,
she lifts healing with her words.The salt of flavor runs with overflow,
rising in a drowning of jazz and her.Altars of eyes kneel worshiping
with understanding, owning the pain she feels.Tree tops wave to passing clouds;
she sees the land from there,
weeping for faces left behind.
ONLY THE NOTES
Purposed with feeling
and perfect timing,
his fingers crawl
on the guitar
like a river
commanding space
between valleysYears of sound
wash from him
like a fever
sending deep chills
on the crowd
like a hammer
settling fast.The music mixes
jazz and life,
collecting thick
on listeners
as they applaud,
but he hears
only the notes.
some related articles are listed below:
- roger singer | sorrow song & delta jazz & from her
- roger singer | 3 poems
- roger singer | 3 [jazz] poems
- roger singer | 3 (more) jazz poems
- roger singer | a line of strings & other poems
- roger singer | with song | the air of her
- roger singer | more (jazz) poems
- roger singer | the bank of blues and other poems
- roger singer | fear of loss & inside the horn & teach me the jazz
- roger singer | overflowing & blowing horn
- roger singer | pulling at me | brass bound | his jazz
- roger singer | soaked on jazz | solid wind | with night
- roger singer | walls bow
- roger singer | she cries of voice
- roger singer | her gift of words
- roger singer | separate colors
- roger singer | listening to angels
- roger singer | ringside | a curious line
- roger singer | walking the dirt | unwrapped | that brassy thing
- roger singer | a storm of force & we sing & slide and slap
- roger singer | round and round
- for norbert | hurt
- albert huffstickler | love song
- attila jozsef | the song of a grieving hungarian
- todd moore | the volcanic death song of baby face nelson
- dorothea grossman | four poems
- mark weber | poems and doodles
- mark weber | four poems from new york city
- steven dalachinsky | the mantis and other poems 1966-2009 | inspired by the music of cecil taylor
- harry rasky | the song of leonard cohen















1 Comment
December 9th, 2009 at 2:02 am
The camera for these shots is an old beat-up early 70s Olympus 35RC that ex-saxophonist Tom Guralnick gave me (he runs the Outpost Performance Space), it’s a rangefinder. That’s a type of camera. It’s as different from an SLR as an electric guitar is from a classical guitar. I load it up with either Tri-X or HP-5 and shoot it 400ASA usually wide open at 1/60th or 1/30th. You don’t get any more basic than that. I love it. It’s my first rangefinder. Part of my new aesthetic is not to shoot a million shots but to only snap 5 or 6 maybe ten at most. Sort of like Robert Frank, just point at whatever is happening and let the camera do the work. Sometimes I only shoot 3 photos at the concert. And those were as an after-thought. I’m mostly there to listen. These pix curiously fit Mr Singers poems, wow. Thanks, Tom, for the camera, you’re the best!
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