Bill Prouten on Sax 2!

 

Bill Prouten on Sax!

 

Jazz Cat (for Bill Prouten)

JAZZ CAT

a true jazz cat can live in the moment

able to duly see

the sweet mauve haze of an unadorned blessing

the fruit of an angel tree

and when he plays he plays like a tiger

a jungle cat slinking wild

and when he plays he moves like a cobra

and laughs like a wayward child

there is no now just a moving abstraction

there is no then or when

there is an is, unfolding in rhythm

in which we are born again

it’s true that some hearts chime to the music 

it’s true that some cats know

and play the pulse of divine recreation

(as above. . . so below)

The Invention of the Saxophone

i don’t know who invented this 

reflexive question mark of an instrument 

but i think it was a good thing 

for it’s great to look at, 

with fat keys like frog eyes 

and a big bell like royal jelly 

you could keep flowers in there if you wanted to, 

extra socks 

or even a clock 

Snakes kink too 

and this sound is snakey 

purply mauve as the deepest bruise 

and raunchy 

as a man in love 

smoked as some cat of the night 

disappearing over a fence 

it makes leaps 

(but only because it has to) 

There is no 

morning saxophone 

this is a sound that 

pulls the shades down 

a hangover 

howl 

fading to twilight 

or the blackmost 

belly button 

of the night 

Few can wrap their lips around 

this gooseneck 

without some harm coming to them 

for this is an instrument 

with a long history of 

hollowing out 

all but the most hardy 

Bird flew into a pane 

of glass and was 

smashed 

we don’t know why it does this to people 

(maybe it was mad at him 

for taking it all to such extremes) 

but how could you blow this thing 

halfway 

i ask you 

how could you rear back 

in some great pained whiplash of the spine 

without a sense of 

terrible commitment 

i never much cared for 

saxophones myself 

until i heard one blown correctly at last 

jazz is a genre i will never understand 

but perhaps that’s good 

for like the priesthood, one must enter into it 

without question 

reservation 

or doubt

After searching fruitlessly (saxophone poem)

AFTER SEARCHING FRUITLESSLY FOR A POEM BY BILLY COLLINS CALLED THE INVENTION OF THE SAXOPHONE, THE AUTHOR TAKES IT UPON HERSELF TO WRITE ONE OF HER OWN

i don’t know who invented this

reflexive question mark of an instrument

but i think it was a good thing

for it’s great to look at,

with fat keys like frog eyes
and a big bell like royal jelly
you could keep flowers in there if you wanted to,
extra socks
or even a clock

Snakes kink too

and this sound is snakey
purply mauve as the deepest bruise
and raunchy
as a man in love

smoked as some cat of the night

disappearing over a fence
it makes leaps
(but only because it has to)

There is no

morning saxophone

this is a sound that

pulls the shades down

a hangover

howl

fading to twilight

or the blackmost

belly button
of the night

Few can wrap their lips around

this gooseneck
without some harm coming to them
for this is an instrument
with a long history of
hollowing out
all but the most hardy

Bird flew into a pane

of glass and was
smashed

we don’t know why it does this to people

(maybe it was mad at him
for taking it all to such extremes)

but how could you blow this thing

halfway

i ask you

how could you rear back

in some great pained whiplash of the spine
without a sense of
terrible commitment

i never much cared for

saxophones myself

until i heard one blown correctly at last

jazz is a genre i will never understand
but perhaps that’s good
for like the priesthood, one must enter into it

without question

reservation
or doubt