Jacob Anthony Ramírez: Pick of the Week [ed. Terence Winch]

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The Lives of Jazz Fathers

 

Let’s resurrect the trumpet players;

the saxophonists named for fauna gone

extinct in the Congos and Barrios,

the worship and wail, the shadow song

 

of 40s Noir—black and white ailments

of New York’s terminally cool.

There are no more quartets—

only quartered ensemble split from

 

cities coated to chin, faces blurred white

in pedestrian winds and yellow cabs.

Now, the drummers search estate sales, rummage

for swivel stools to post on Etsy. The bassists

 

study Phlebotomy, read blood panels for Diabetes.

The pianists work dental offices, drill tartars

to reveal the whites of cuspids. The saxophonists

teach Tai Chi classes, sleep at the Chinatown Y.

 

I mean to say I miss them: the notes who stroll

October for pick up chess in parks

with coffees and fingerless gloves; the chop

chords at brick-and-mortar steak houses;

 

the soloists smile in the amber memory

of nightclubs numb with intoxication.

They’re dead – the blue veranda is silent

where they jammed, moon drift in palm

leaves and ivory; notes of copper and zinc.

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Jacob Anthony Ramírez is an educator and poet. He is a distinguished graduate of Lancaster University’s Creative Writing M.A. In 2022, Oxford Brookes University’s Ignition Press released Kitchen Boombox, his debut pamphlet. His poetry appears in The Breakbeat Poets, LatiNEXT, The Best New Poets 2022, and Latino Book Review. He is currently at work on his first full collection in Sonoma County, California, where he lives with his wife and two children.

__________________________________________________________________________________              William P. Gottlieb, Portrait of Thelonious Monk, Howard McGhee, Roy Eldridge, and Teddy Hill, Minton’s Playhouse, New York, 1947.

Comments

[Bill Nevins]

I love this poem. I am forwarding it to TJ English, author of Dangerous Rhythms!
"the soloists smile in the amber memory

of nightclubs numb with intoxication.

They’re dead – the blue veranda is silent

where they jammed, moon drift in palm

leaves and ivory"

[Grace Cavalieri]

no more beautiful ending ever written

[Thomas O'Grady]

Once upon a time . . . giants walked the earth. The Gottlieb photograph complements the poem beautifully. Might I also recommend the photographs of Herman Leonard? The lowlight b/w photos of Gottlieb, Leonard, et al. from the late ‘40s and the ‘50s register what lurks so wistfully behind this evocative poem.

[Geoffrey Himes]

I love this bittersweet reminder that artistic giants hide unknown among us in dentist offices and steak-house kitchens, laboring at the quotidian and humming their memories.

[lally]

brilliant tribute to genius(es) gone but not forgotten, resonating in the recordings, photography, poetry, and films of an era I was thankfully alive for and aware of, (and a tiny part of), but never saw captured as wonderfully as this...

[Phyllis Rosenzweig]

A beautiful, sad elegy.

[Sr . Leslie]

I love this poem!…I could hear the music as I read it…and as I walk the streets of Harlem..Thanks Terence and Jacob…

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, Leslie. Glad you liked it.

[Clarinda]

This poem and also the poem are beyond any casual comment I could make. Suffice it to say that for 29+ years I never missed a Sunday concert at Baltimore’s Famous Ballroom. I heard all the greats play in person $5 and bring your own food to share with wonderful strangers at big round tables.

[Eileen Reich]

Beautiful poem. I loved “the soloists smiled”. Brings back special memories.

[Bob Holman]

Dig? Dig!

[Elinor Nauen]

How lucky we are to have all that music & history, in no small part thanks to this beautiful poem.

[Alan Bernheimer]

Hitting on all cylinders. Made my day!

[Jacob Ramírez]

All,

Enormous gratitude to Terence Winch and you, the readers, who donated your time to comment on "The Lives of Jazz Fathers." This poem is informed by the many experiences I had with my father, a jazz musician, and his heroes. With meager resources, pop scraped enough cash for my brother Jemal and me to see Miles Davis, Weather Report, Spyro Gyra, Chick Corea, and so many others.

If you love this poem, please consider checking out my book, Kitchen Boombox, which is available at the link to this post.

In community,

Jacob Ramírez

[Linda Hickman]

This poem brings back those memories of nights spent in the Village, NYC, where fine music existed everywhere, in every small bar and you didn’t have to search to hear Dexter Gordon or Herbie Hancock playing after hours. Thank you .

[David Lehman]

Terrific poem on a subject dear to my heart, and a wonderful photograph, too.

[David Lehman]

Is (was) your father Ram Ramirez, who wrote "Lover Man (oh, where can you be?)"? I heard him play numerous times at the West End Bar circa 1975 -1976 in a series organized by Phil Schaap with trumpeter Franc leaving the band.

[Jacob Ramirez]

David,

Thank you for your curiosity and kindness. While Ram Ramirez isn't a relative, I would warmly claim him as kin.

My brother, Jemal, inherited most of pop's percussion chops. He's a well-regarded Jazz drummer.

Me -- I'm just doing my darndest with this poetry.

Again, many thanks!

In community,

JR