Thursday, March 6, 2014

Mark Prudowsky

Listening to Coltrane Plays the  Blues

hill home
trimmed in a
dipped-in-the-sea blue.

a place which like many others
might escape your recall
save for the rapid tap of the top-hat,
the thumping lightly bass drum,
the didja hear bout the time
lick on the keyboard, the reed brassy
sass of been an awfully long day and
sure glad it’s over hellyeah you can pour me a whiskey
and let’s kick it and see where it goes.

             the curved horn and the one who bends it
in the room overlooking the sea
hid in the a cold mist that rolls in with the dusk.
how else could their beauty escape you?  
how could it?

without the slow quiet spaces between blow and draw
how else would one  know what it means?

if the gaps make you shift in your chair
you’ll not wanna hear: other places
warn you away.

then you get it. the ghost isn’t reaching
to pull you in but to push you away. you know
this as the light’s patter on walls.
know that one memory wrecks, another repairs and makes whole.
nah! you don’t believe that.

how well do you know the language? how well do you feel
when it tells you the one who could forgive disappears?


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