Brandon D. Johnson: Pick of the Week [ed. Terence Winch]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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In Concert

 

Earl grins and flicks ash from his shoulder.

he scans the scene, ears tuned for sirens,

says less gunpowder might blow just

the door off next time.

from our safe distance, we stare at the yacht’s cabin;

it flips, hits water, disappears like a penny in used motor oil.

one narrow smoke column mixes with moist air.

this guy counts on next times the way a wet thumb

snaps hundreds off a roll, lives for

on-the-job practice like a rookie surgeon

who never says oops.

 

I clamp the top buckle on my McIntosh,

push pant legs deep into gum boots.  it’s cold,

the boat’s bowels are water-logged, sinking.

my jaw is tight thinking how Earl

slings explosives the way he slaps

an upright; all feeling, no control.

it’s the reason they have so few gigs,

why gaps are filled clutching

black bags and looking around corners.

it’s been difficult explaining how discipline

and popularity are related but that’s what got

them interested in my proposal in the first place.

 

four men and Cynthia follow

me down the pier dragging heels,

scraping meaning

from all this.  match heads

crackle, smoke blows through lips

like dead whistles.   

 

I knew the woman could use a gun

the first time I saw her lips part

to loose a somber note.  she was not to be messed

with. the only one allowed to pack heat.  if she had to,

she could even do bullheaded Cedric, the drummer,

holding that sledgehammer to knock away

what Earl’s excess hadn’t already. 

Charles, the gloved pianist, refused anyone’s hand,

distrustful of others and the manly art of handshaking.

his fingers spin combo dials.   Kevin, wheel man,

player of anything needing wind, thought being smart

made him next in command.  No one fought him on it,

knowing he never shut-up when he thought he was right. 

he was not.

 

when riffing, they meshed like gear-teeth

but out here, someone is always to blame

for one misstep or another.

I thought it’d be easy to teach

a bunch of musicians

how to play off each other like the call

and response of alternating solos, but

this is the fourth time.

they should have it down by now.

my last two gangs, formed from scratch

and good liquor, did better, sooner.

but they weren’t as well-traveled

and they weren’t as young.

 

perhaps I’ve aged beyond this avocation,

the thrill of rousing people past abilities.

these pieces can’t be played alone.

I suppose, in a moment’s clarity, I’ll cool.

my head will settle.  I’ll accept

for this quintet, doing scores

is harder than sight-reading Mingus.

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Brandon D. Johnson is author of Love’s Skin, Man Burns Ant, The Strangers Between, and co-author of The Black Rooster Social Inn: This Is The Place. He is published in several print and online journals and anthologies. Brandon is also a photographer. Born in Gary, Indiana, he received a BA from Wabash College and his JD from Antioch School of Law. He lives with his wife and children in Washington, DC.

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        Charles Mingus record cover. Design and painting by S. Neil Fujita, 1959.

Comments

[reuben m. jackson]

Brilliant AF

[dan gutstein]

a classic poem about america's classical music, AH UM.

[Doug Pell]

Love this one. Perfect blend of "feeling and control"viewed from the eye of a musician's hurricane playing the music of life.

[Bill Nevins]

" I’ll accept

for this quintet, doing scores

is harder than sight-reading Mingus."

Brilliant! Ah Um!

[Clarinda harriss]

I love how this poem sneaks up on the reader and guns them down in a burst of sound. This poem really speaks to me as a poet and jazz lover. I watched a very youthful jazz trio play at big art opening last night. The poem brought to mind the delight of watching the sax player and singer, a gorgeous young Black woman, acted as the classical conductor for the keyboard and guitar. Powerful joyful noise

[Grace Cavalieri]

The energy of the gods

[Geoffrey Himes]

I love a crime movie with a noir opening shot, a jazz soundtrack and a great punch line.

[Don Berger]

I love Brandon Johnson's clear-eyed look at these characters, his speaker's take on the action precise and also lyrical to nth degree. There's such music here, and complexity in the ways the speaker assesses what he experiences and thinks and feels. The poem is enviably and supremely great, to an extent that I feel compelled to read it a dozen more times and then try something like it, in hopes that Johnson's magic's rubbed off on me. I'm glad Terence has shown this to all of us.

[lally]

what himes said

[Terence Winch]

Don:  Thanks for your comment (and for turning me on to this terrific poem).

[Eileen]

Poets and musicians satisfy the soul.

[Peter Kearney]

in the final stanza, the poet wonders is it time to retire from his teaching, but when, in that same stanza, the language of music and banditry become indistinguishable, we know he's not ready to quit yet.

[John Sanders]

Like a great jazz solo both visceral & rewarding multiple readings. Brandon has created a urban multiverse of characters. As a lover of jazz & crime novels I love the mash-up of the two genres. Brilliant work