Jazzpoetry by John Sinclair

Before the performance, John Sinclair, takes time out to sit and be quiet. He turns inwards and then without  papers or books he speaks, delivers his texts in true San Francisco poetry style. Here defending the Blues.








 
 "humphf"                by  John Sinclair           

for big red                   

they say monk    

couldn't play the music. they say,    

monk, he limited    

by his own vision                         

& just can't play right. monk,    

he too weird. his music    

don't sound right, and he gets up    

& dances                         

while he's playing,    

like a jackal preacher    

at a revival meeting    

in an old tent in north carolina.                         

they say monk sound too much    

like a whorehouse piano player    

from some pre-harlem ghetto    

stuffed with back-woods renegades                         

& sporting women & gamblers,    

street-level intellectuals. they say    

monk, what is that shit    

you trying to play, you just can't                         

do it that way,    

you too way out baby,    

that stuff ain't you. & monk,    

in his infinite knowledge                          

& wisdom, shoots a grin    

from behind the piano,    

wiggles his ass on the stool,    

lays down another few bars                         

of utter genius,    

turns it over to the tenor player    

& rises to dance beside the piano,     

some more of that old north carolina boogaloo           

*
Even great poets have to enjoy their nicotine  out in the street on a rainy night...     

Clara Hsu-San Francisco Poet

Clara Hsu is one of the San Francisco poets we met and even heard read her work, accompanying herself with Chinese singing bowls. A wonderful combination.


Cherry Blossoms

To dream
is to wake when the first
token of romance is set adrift.
The crystal droplets that clung onto new shoots
have given birth.
The sun, in mere days, ripens the offspring.
They bloom in droves,
pale lace wrinkling on the edges,
blushing as they warm.

To wake
is to walk into the dreamscape of flowers
masking earth and sky,
and petals are the rain.
Young girls clip a cluster of pink
on their long black hair,
half-cover their faces
with lacquered parasols.
Young men get drunk on love poems.

To wake again
is to let the maudlin memories
be crushed by tire tracks,
and watch cyclists careening down
the velvet floor,
swift as birds in flight.
*

Kersenbloesem

Dromen

is wakker worden als de eerste

blijk van romance op drift is gezet.

De kristallen druppeltjes die kleefden aan nieuwe scheuten

hebben gebaard.

De zon, in luttele dagen, rijpt het nageslacht.

Zij bloesemen veelbloemig,

bleke kant rimpelend aan de rand,

blozend als zij opwarmen.

Wakker worden

is wandelen in het droomlandschap van bloemen

die aarde en hemel maskeren,

en bloemblaadjes zijn de regen.

Jonge meisjes spelden een tros roze

op het lange zwarte haar,

half bedekkend hun gelaat

met gelakte parasols.

Jonge mannen worden dronken van liefdesgedichten.

Opnieuw wakker worden

is de huilerige herinneringen laten

vergruizelen door bandensporen,

en kijken hoe fietsers naar beneden slingeren

op fluwelen grond,

snel als vogels in vlucht.

Next to poet Rose Vandewalle, Lucienne Stassaert preparing her performance.


Follows poem # 2 from the series 1-7 called Leben-Leven-Life

© sms:foto duisburg/rhein 2011

2

Het heeft vogels nodig

om te zingen

mensen om te verdwijnen

zon en maanlicht

om kleur te bekennen:

hoe geladen het is

met betekenissen

in spiegelschrift –

Tekens om met hand en tand

te ontcijferen

want op het lijf geschreven

van wie je voorging

op de weg naar het einde –

 *

Es braucht Vögel

um zu singen

Menschen zu verschwinden

Sonne und Mondlicht

um Farbe zu bekennen:

wie beladen es ist

mit Bezeichnungen

in Spiegelschrift

Zeichen mit Klaue und Haar

zu entziffern,

weil auf den Leib geschrieben

so wie du vorgingst

auf dem Weg zum Ende

*

It needs birds

to sing

people to disappear

sun and moonlight

to show one's color:

how charged it is

with meanings

in mirror-writing -

Signs to decipher

with tooth and nail

because inscribed all over the body

of who before you took

the road to the end

Two musicians, one a poet

Here the incredible duo enjoyed by all: Lucienne Stassaert, the Grande Dame of Poetry reading from the cycle: Long enough.
It is a heart wrenching end of love situation, sharply formulated, merciless in its honesty.

One of Lucienne's poetry's strong points is the rhythm. She played even in the Queen Elizabeth competition. When proofreading a translation of her work, she will try out the cadence of the new coat for her feelings and thoughts.

Here she plays with her friend Jean Demey.

  pictures: © Bram Goots


Jean  does grand improvisations.
That is how we met. He has a feel for the moods and the color of the words. His playing with Lucienne's words was in different shades of blues. in the past  he performed with poets as Paul Snoek, Hugo Raes, Willem Roggeman, Cees Buddingh and Gust Gils,

*

Lang genoeg

I

Lang genoeg quatre-mains gespeeld

zonder één keer op te kijken,

na te gaan zoals Orfeus

of mijn lief al dan niet nog bestond.

Lang genoeg bij hoge noten

een bas gemist bij het samenspel

om de toonloze stilten te wegen

vóór en na de kleine dood.

Jodelen kon. En zich te pletter ademen

zoals minnaars op het hoogst van de min

in volle vlam uit het licht vallen

en in den blinde uit elkaar.

Tot op een zeker zwart-wit moment,

juist afgesteld en gekadreerd,

de waarheid als een inmaakbom

van verrot fruit aan scherven sprong:

Hij speelde al jaren niet meer mee.

*

Long enough

I

Played a duet long enough

without looking up once,

checking as Orpheus
whether or not my lover still existed.

Long enough with high notes
missed a bass in this ensemble
to weigh the toneless silences
before and after la petite mort.

Yodelling possible. Breathing oneself to pieces
as lovers at the height of ardour
in full flame fall out of the light
blindly fall apart.

Till a certain black/white moment,
correctly focused and framed,
the truth like a preserving bottle bomb
of rotten fruit exploding in shards:

He hadn’t played along for years.