Scatology of Jazz
by Marjorie Norris
Movement, the sound of horn, the sense of koto laid in snow,
A buffeting of hail upon that rooftop, flat as a Japanese sky,
The bus’s flow, the sound of bees, cat on a hot tin…the
Koto’s reassurance of rain: clare-in-net! Cacophony
Of city sounds and ooh-la! The blaring horn of morning—
Each day the lust for cir-cum-money, carrying
The briefcase of desire and the idea— long hands,
Short fingers of koto player, then the bow
Of the cello, now silence. Dun-dun-serious done.
Call it a breaking day. The cello reels, then breaks
Its heart, and the days travel by. In the heart of night,
A silent dog lopes from the forest, sniffs
A tuft of chicory under a streetlight, remembers
His mother, the pups he was born from, this is
The call of the saxophone, the galloping of ponies,
The funeral durge of strings, those strings that lament
Like a mother, an evening fusion, taste of chocolate,
Tea from India, Ceylon, the bamboo of koto, tension
Of tree boughs, leaves strung out like lights and days
Hung like stars, a mobile. Then, how lonely! How
Much the world knows, carried on koto’s back,
The breath of horn, the string vision of that cello
Weeping, the koto’s testimony in raindrops,
A loon’s promise on a choppy lake.
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