for avotcja (14)

for avotcja
1941 --

melodies, rhythms, & timbres arise from
the immersive environs of spanish brooklyn.
a girl child is born, swaddled in the wafting
cuerpo de espíritu of laguerre velez, the
seditious crónicas of jesús colon & the deific
musical conversations of tito puente. u came
to us, avotcja, addicted to sound, even the
white noise released from the kinetic crashings
of cultures, the new sonorities of loneliness.
passing thru spanish harlem's liminality, thru
its screens of specified mesh — growing up
latina in new york —u landed in & bounced
around the avant garde spaces of los angeles'
central avenue & the influence of horace tapscott.
no one had to tell u of the inseparability of
music, dance, rite & poetry, my sister. like
most african-derived artists, u knew intuitively
that such separations were but artificial devices
of academics trying to stretch their thoughts like
goat skin over the membranophonic frames of
heart & soul. yr ideas — word, rhythm or song —
grew organically from the nature of yr spiritual
timbre. yr poems are polyphonic choirs of wood,
skin, & metal; yr rhythms, melismatic inducements
for spirit trance. yr dance, acrobatic virtuosity
wed to explorations of multiple percussive tone
color & rhythm. these were yr meat; sustained
you thru the fire & blood of watts, thru yr
sojourn in europe & return to california to play
with rahsaan, john handy & so many others.
u have always known, my dear poet sister,
percussionist, olorisa, just like u know the
source of earth, wind, fire & water, that the
music erupting from the fissures in yr heart
& soul, is the same as the dance of the claves
in yr hands, the rippling, cascading twinkle
of tuned wind chimes, the urgent slap/strike
of yr ocean drum & idiophonic wood blocks &
cowbells, the contained rainstorms of yr rain
stick, the reco reco's rasping counterpoint,
the life rattle of the shekere & the stark
tintinabulations of yr temple gongs. the
poignant poetry of the words condensed
from yr deep water body through which all
feeling (draining from the soul of the world)
flows,or from the magic theater of yr sobriety,
where one learns to do the next right thing
one day at a time; produces its own validity;
is validated again & again in yr rich creative
spell-weaving that celebrates the ever
resurrecting goodness in us all.

©Joseph McNair; 2010

for melba liston (13)

for melba liston

1926 -1999

sliding from bebop to motown was

for u like moving from kansas city

to l.a. -- no change in direction. u

were arranger/saavy & yr sound did

not break, yr movements clearly

mapped & every pitch had the same

harmonic number. yr portamento

life, was full of restless intervals, had

its salient recurring figures, but u,

melba, resolved yr augmented 4ths

into sweet minor sixths picking the

‘bone as yr axe not because it was

what finishing school girls did, but

because the thing was so damn

beautiful; falling in & out with music

teachers who meant well because u
knew yr own musical mind, had a

great ear & could write like a crowning

muse. the great bandleaders found u -–

gerald wilson in ’43, johnnie griffin

in ‘45, diz in ’48 & ’56, billie holliday

in ’48-’49, Q in ’57, clark terry, &

mingus thru the sixties & randy weston

in the sixties, seventies,eighties &

nineties. although u slow played yr valve

trombone, a sensitive virtuoso blues &

ballad stylist, blending motivic & linear

improvisations to make yr solos lyrical

& gay or mysterious & warm, u are

remembered best for possessing like a

loa the musical ideas of others, filling

them with the aşẹ of hidden & secret

things,writing vital pieces for combo &

big band alike, moving from ballads &

standards to funky grooves; melodic &

polyrhythmic motifs with extended tonal

vocabularies, so rich in altered harmonic

voicings, layered to the bone with due

dissonance, & the deep variations & subtle

shadings of africa.

©Joseph McNair;2010

for clora bryant (12)

for clora bryant
1930 –

rise up, rise up,

&, as the trumpet blowing

chases the dreams of men...

edward thomas

u played so sweet yr dad broke down & cried;
his texas girl could never be the same.
a lady with a trumpet u became
against all odds & practice true & tried.
who knew what fickle deities betide,
or how a colored girl would earn her fame.
that u might play with bird or diz, declaim
the feminine & change the tide
or break thru gender barriers to play
with men, exert yr forceful horn on jazz,
embrace & improvise on change --
no real surprise just history today!
a light beneath a bushel? no. in jazz
a bebop lighthouse beacon & phalange!

© Joseph McNair;2010

for jutta hipp (11)

for jutta hipp
1925-2003

u never ceased to believe that real jazz happened in
small clubs, wrought by superb musicians whose talents were
eclipsed because they refused to push themselves into
the bright lights. & u stayed zoned in the comfort of small
quartets & quintets nourishing yr talent with
count basie, teddy wilson, fats waller & later
the hard bop, blues inspired rhythmic propensities of
horace silver until u emerged as the only
widely known, much respected female jazz pianist
in germany & europe’s own first lady of jazz.
u stayed true to yr beliefs, eschewing the spotlight
playing with a lean, low-key percussive, swinging style
then stopped playing in ’58, too through, all too through!


©Joseph McNair;2010

for lil hardin (10)

for lil hardin
1898 -- 1971

what was it about jellyroll’s
playing that got to u, lil?

was it his abrupt breaks or

stop-time passages, how he

swung the eighth & sixteenth

notes, or his break-neck

tempo? u said his piano rocked,

the floor shivered & the people

swayed when he played, while

he beat out a double rhythm

with his foot on the loud
pedal. what did you expect

from the man who claimed to

have invented jazz? he probably

knew he gave u a bit of a thrill,

even amazed u a little bit, but

when u threw rachmaninoff's

prelude in c sharp minor on

him, just to give him a little

sumpin/sumpin. i’m sure he

didn’t know what to think.

but he showed u something
that day in jones’ music store

on chicago’s southside, & u

started embellishing those

sheet music scores u showed

off to sell, jellyroll-like & with

yr own ideas. yep, ole jellyroll

coaxed the kitty out the bag.
that little taste he gave u grew

into a mighty thirst. a thirst

that took u to the de luxe café

where u were conscripted to

play in sugar johnnie's new

orleans creole orchestra.

yo mama didn’t like it one bit!

didn’t want u on beale street

or anywhere near the jazz,

the drugs or the whores. but

$22.50 a week was more than

she made. thus did needmo’
assuage her doubts. enter hot

miss lil who played like a man

but dressed like a sunday school

teacher. from sugar johnnie to

king oliver at the dreamland

where u met destiny in too-
country-for–chicago louis armstrong,
bought him some new clothes,
made him cut the bangs out of
his hair &finally married him.
cajoled himaway from king oliver
into astellar career of his own.
uhelped make him, little brown
girl; booked his gigs, wrote his

music & led his band while he

pranced & clowned on the band

stand. u were among those

featured players on some of the

first jazz ever recorded. u even

wrote some of those first great

tunes. but true to yr own vision,

u had to leave louis, not so much

because of his infidelities or his

capricious ways, but to become

the most prominent woman in

early jazz; to lead yr own bands,

male, mixed & all female, to sing,

do musicals, write, conduct, stretch.

but that didn’t keep you from

following his career like a

hound on a scent until he died.

i guess you got lonely for him

because you followed him out

that same exit seven weeks later.

its just as well, lil, for though

you have carved for yrself a place

in the history of jazz, yr rightful

& significant place, anyone

looking for louis will find u close

by, a footnote to his towering

greatness.

©Joseph McNair;2010

for opal palmer adisa (33)

with all the rainbow’s splendor

for opal palmer adisa

she had a knack for figuring

out the finite in the infinite

from ‘roti’

well known to nigeria’s gwari, berom & otárók
peoples, who dwell in her plateau lands,
u can rise daily to go to farm & if the gods
smile widely, showing their sparkling teeth,
while clearing the land of its native cover,
while removing rocks & stones, opals &
tourmalines can be found resting anonymously
on the surface. the trick of fate is to know what

they are, recognize their iridescent value, or they
will be mindlessly tossed for the mundane yam,
sorghum & millet pray/planted in the holes they
leave. i found u in much the same way. the certain
surfaces of yr poems drew me to u, daughter of
the uncommon yam, caught my eye; appeared
to change colors in the way of soap bubbles,
butterfly wings & mother of pearl. i picked up
one of yr poems & held it like a conch shell to my

ear. the twang of yr lilting poetic voice took hold

of me, took me by the hand & walked me “finger

laced with onlookers looking on” thru the erotic

& often ineffable landscapes of yr verse. i know

the muses who routinely take yr head. they are like

pomba gira, the salaciously scintillating spouse of eşu

& iyami aje, the divine mother of the mothers, who

cause u to write power without guilt, love without

doubt & against the arrogance or negligence of men;

cause u to poetically walk or gẹlẹdẹ dance where u please,

afraid of no one, neither law nor rule, flowing through

the cracks & crevices of convention. yes i know

yr muses & why u must motherly & loverly receive

them. & every day when i go to farm in my own fashion,

at labor’s end, if i don’t find a new opal resting on

the ground before me, i simply retreat to the secret

clutch of poems that i keep; poems alive, stepped on

by the creator, sparkling with all the rainbow’s splendor

& take one, look deeply into it or put it to my ear.

©Joseph McNair

for devorah major (32)

she who shonesang then... & now

for laureate devorah major

i know
i was one who pulsed
shone sang cajoled yelled,
cried and pled yes
yes i want a tongue
yes i want to breathe
yes i want to dance...
from "yes to life"

for some before u, the street poets & black
arts wordsmiths, poems were bullets, hard
projectiles to be cunningly propelled by mouth
& pen, to disrupt/disable by impact, penetration.
u have slung yr share of armament: stones,
bullets, & bombs exploding in unexpected places,
& with good reason. anger & rage, the didactic
& imperative voice, are often useful poet tools.
u have used them sparingly and to good effect.
but rather than bullets, yr poems are in the main
deliberate acts of love. sometimes u slip up, laureate,
& let something too personal, a truth about yr self,
slip out, like an aroused naked breast revealed
when a blouse falls open, or a blushing hint of the
honey oozing down yr thigh, but more often u lead
us down frequent side tracks & trails to clear
& still pools of what-is-not, where we may
refresh ourselves before returning to that narrow
winding path to what-is-so; or thru the backstreets
& alleyways, stepping respectfully over the dozing
icons & transients, past the ghostly buildings of
cherished black memories in an old, ailing city
dissolving into somewhere else; where only the
street signs are the same. yr poems keep us coming
& going, discovering & exploring the overlooked
familiar, the gaping holes left by the sadly missing,
the pervasive but understated faith-girded potency
of yr vision. u give us naught to negotiate with but
yr love, what u call “a homemade, pocket-sized acorn
tool of a solution” fashioned by u alone in some timeless
place at the center of things.


©Joseph McNair;2009

for rita dove (31)

one narcissus among the ordinary

for laureate rita dove

one narcissus among the ordinary beautiful
flowers, one unlike all the others! She pulled,
stooped to pull harder—
when, sprung out of the earth
on his glittering terrible
carriage, he claimed his due.
it is finished. No one heard her.
from “persephone, falling”

yet again, another on a shortlist of african
american literary firsts, u humbly bowed
yr head to receive the nation’s laurel

wreath; making apollo rainbow smile in

spite of himself. where h.d. unearthly

necromanced the common object, wryly

wrote greek statues to life & vivified an

exanimate imagism; yr fey magic, laureate,

framed the common middle-class experience,

made it coruscate, sparkle & twinkle…

[in for shiny copper pennies more than ezra

pound] made it so universal that folk forgot

u were black; so sometimes idiomatic that

the same folk were shock/shamed into

remembering that u were, writing in

whatever form that just suits u, whatever u

might want to say, in & thru’ voices not

normally heard. write on ms. dove, splendidly

spin yr words, figures & tales, be they mythic

oedipal plots in antebellum big houses,

or verse dramas u recite aloud to make

their music bud & bloom; yr lissome

poetics pleasurepush the lyrical boundaries

of grace. u ooh hoo got that magic

laureate’s touch, that special sumpin,

sumpin.


© Joseph McNair; 2009

for harryette mullen (30)

for harryette mullen

go on sister sing your song
lady redbone señora rubia
took all day long
shampooing her nubia…
from “go on sister sing your song”

to visionary heteroglossia,
u said, or bust, & leaped
from yr univocal rock across
the sinking sands of authentic
voice, across non-newtonian
fluidity unable to support
the significant weight of yr
poetic into a refracted domain
of identity & hybrid utterances
where blackness postures in the
screet, in the face of ĭn'ə-vā'shən,
where experiential tries to bully
experimental in another’s speech,
in sum other’s dialectal vehicle
in an abrupt drive-by of inten-
tions & accents but settle their
differences at poem’s end once
a postmodern pun, a thyme.
oh i do like yr stuff, woman,
yr sandra c. say “hip hyperbole,”
yr dicty sans synecdoche, impish
anagrams & fixations on worldly
wardrobe accessories, yr erotic
intersections of orality & illiterate
literacy. like miz lou say, no lickle
twang. u remind us that poetry is
heavy & fun, tickles our trauma;
is meaningless & tragic, high &
low context & seriously silly…
so go on sister, poet/sing. i hear u.

excuse me while i clear my thought;

forgive me if i can’t join in.

©Joseph McNair;2009

for julia de burgos (11)

la grifa negra

for julia de burgos

julia, sun painted & wind primped belonging to
none but yr heart, yr kinky hair & plump kafir lips,
negro trozo de negro. in yr verse, u bludgeon
the false & socially constructed, anticipate
the furious feminist flower emerging from
its sojourn in the depths of tears & sorrow, before
it wins thru’, first in yr dense congo/boricua
ánimo, then to spill on yr poet pages the
first blood shed in yr peripatetic & perpet-
ual revolution. words that can scratch & scar or
even slay the dreaded dreary dragon of despair.
julia, sun painted & wind primped belonging to
us all. the black vine, our sweet, sweet negro bejuco.

© Joseph McNair;2009

for cm clark (29)

imago for countless seasons

for cm clark

i shift my gaze to the hermit crab
land-prone itinerant, borrowed baggage
craven & familial, we set our sights at sea-level,
where nothing wilder to sniff settles
than an abandoned whelk,
a cracked conch
waiting for the nearest wave
from “sea-level”

ma cherie, there’s no need to suck
in yr breath when emily dickinson’s
name is invoked or spoke aloud.
u were never her, not in a thousand

lifetimes; nor were u that split metallic

gold pupal case, that exuvium that

wore her famous face & contained

u for a time.
u have been imago for countless
seasons. yr wing veins taut with
haemolymph. u fly gloriously free &
unfettered by earthly constraints,

a metamorphic, flying far & multiverse

wide, piercing the layers of time &

space stealing words from caravans

& country fairs, from a desert’s bleeding

sunset & a dervish’s whirling white morning,

from a thousand parallel worlds. u forever

fly to love, past the hermit’s cave, high

in a thousand & one night black skies,

under the all-seeing stare of a million stars,

seeking yr stealer of souls, the one who

collects & protects yr wild & fecund heart,

but u wisely drop yr stolen words like

bread crumbs so that u find yr way back

home. u fly forever to love, but yr gifted

grace is to bring love to life in the words

u toss on yr pages like an opele chain, those

magical syllables stolen from those caravans,

from sabian & chaldean merchants &

mendicants, from the wandering melevi,

that makes yr beloved coalesce into

quicksilver sanguinity, materialize & make

slippery transcendent seduction in

momentary pauses in ordinary thought

that illumine life’s meaningfulness,

while wry & dry emily is stuck in her

timeless thoughtbound prison: in an

eternally mundane struggle against male

power or the technical originality of her

poetry or her variety of themes or range

& depth of intellectual & emotional

experience – u have flown past & thru'

all of that. u know already that yr

participation in the presence is quite

beyond words & thought & thus yr poetspeak,

yr vibrantly magical verse, neither lyric,

plainspeech nor constrained by manwrought

convention, is but flowing ligatures of

runes & sigils that create every kind of

love out of chaos.

© Joseph McNair;2009

for ai (28)

traveling at the velocity of darkness

for ai

you’ve done it as you warned me you would
and left the fetus wrapped in wax paper
for me to look at. my son…
from “abortion”

simply a writer, u call yrself,
the flow & headwaters of legion,
not the proverbial gerasene demon,
but of several uncommon human
streams, a living ethnic multiplicity;

u know much about connection &
connectivity, tying together loose
ends, lending yr scream & sotto voce
to those who cannot/will not speak.
u know, too, about transcendence.

in quilting together the pieces of yr
own identity, the patchwork nisei,
tchakta, red talker, african & druid,
u learned to rotary cut & poet/piece
the fabrics of narrative & dramatic

monologue, sandwich with batting &
backing the layers of tragic violence –
the rape, murder, incest, suicide,
abortion & abuse -- tying & binding
them with yarns of multicolored threads.

©Joseph McNair;2009

for hilda doolittle (7)

for hilda doolittle

o for some sharp swish of a branch--
there is no scent of resin
in this place,
no taste of bark, of coarse weeds,
aromatic, astringent--
only border on border of scented pinks.
from “song”

the greatest of the imagists,
yr sculptor’s sensibility let
u fix, even animate an icon
with all its sensate properties –
be it snow-ribbed sand or a
frost-defying green-fleshed
melon or a grecian statue
stepping out of marble into
life. each image claimed yr
loving care. u took essential
wordstones, chipped away
until their roughshapes came,
surrendered to yr smoothing.
yr poet’s touch set free the
phrase whose embedded cells,
figures & motifs made them
much the more than syllables,
shaped them into cadenced
beats, into periods & points
of motion & arrival… & then
u did the unthinkable, u
shed yr imagist clothes, yr
impersonality & moved on,
to the long poem wherein u,
the poet-prophet, walked thru’
bleak & broken landscapes,
amid the ruins of modernist
masculine symbol systems
seeking the goddess, the
sexually ecstatic mystery;
giving a feminine voice to
classic myths, creating bold,
new woman myths & etching
them on a woman’s wax-coated
palimpsest soul.

©Joseph McNair;2009

for nikki giovanni (27)

turning remembrances to elegy

for nikki giovanni

the black aesthetic’s freshest female voice,
a “wealthy” nikki-rosa took her place
among the shooting stars, then voiced her choice
for love; an active witness for her race.
her angry bullet poems were put to bed;
her bardic voice emerged to taunt & tease
in monologues or stanzas often read
with pauses for unspoken thoughts -- to please
by slipping off her lyric gown to bare
her naked verse, vulva soft or nipple hard;
a poet all alone & fool to care.
today she pulls her lonely close. regard
the way she lonely writes her sober truth,
so wisdom distant from her ruddy youth.

©Joseph McNair; 2009

For Louise Bogan

the poem as a last resort

for louise bogan

women have no wilderness in them,
they are provident instead…
from “women analysis”

u put me in touch with that tight knot
of irrational emotion portrayed faithfully,
u said, by the feeling experienced in
the moment. get it on paper, u demanded,
knowing that such authentic feeling
might be better used elsewhere & thus
made the crafting of a poem, for me,
an onerous task filled with terror &
doubt. when u wrote, achingly, lyrically
acting out the confrontation of poet
v. emotion, following faithfully a
traditional 17th century English mode,
writing masterpieces of crossed rhythms
wherein meter opposes word groupings
with delicacy & artistry, such were the
naked, exhibitionist proof in beautiful
verse of the desperation in yr world in
the small; an authentic sign of the finality
& exigency of betrayal & distrust;
of the eager meaninglessness of love



©Joseph McNair;2009