POETRY

The Melody Never Stops

By Kofi Natambu

Past Tents Press, 1991

"The Melody Never Stops is a luminous zone like the haze of a spotlight in a jazz club or the beam of the cursor flying across the terminal screen of a new guide to the apocalypse. Here are new voices and modes, scary supposings about what reality is in a world hidden from itself by “communication.”

–LORENZO THOMAS

Intervals

By Kofi Natambu

Post Aesthetic Press, 1983

Moment's Notice: Jazz in Poetry & Prose

Edited by Art Lange and Nathaniel Mackey

Coffee House Press, 1992

Hambone

No. 8, Fall 1989

Edited by Nathaniel Mackey

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Transfer

Fall/Winter, 1988/89, Vol. 2, No. 1

Edited by Gary Lenhart

Seeing Jazz: Artists & Writers on Jazz

Compiled by Marquette Folley-Cooper, Deborah Macanie, and Janice McNeil, edited by Elizabeth Goldson. Chronicle Books in association with the Smithsonian Institution Traveling Exhibition Service, 1997

Poems

For Miles Davis

Miles blows blue holes thru red skies

blistering black sounds singe the purple air

And the night is a towering orange aura hovering

above his cavernous horn

Miles blows down empty empires

while floating upon the memory

of a song

Miles is a deepsea dancer

leaving acoustic trails

in green earth rhythms

His dramatic tone causes light

to appear & disappear

His trumpet is a carnivorous loa

that is fed every time he speaks

His Notes crush that which cannot stand

its moaning weight

Miles is the eternal ruler

of the Chromatic

Spectrums of color fall from his swollen upper lip

Soaring symphonic syllogisms

race thru his fingers/are thrust

into the royal and open heart

A sweet scatology of beauty

© 1991, The Melody Never Stops by Kofi Natambu, Past Tents Press. Reprinted in Seeing Jazz: Artists and Writers on Jazz. © 1997. Compiled by Marquette Folley-Cooper, Deborah Macanie, and Janice McNeil, edited by Elizabeth Goldson. Chronicle Books in association with the Smithsonian Institution Traveling Exhibition Service.

xxxx

For Richard Pryor

I can see you now Rich

standing at the edge of

your Hawaiian beach-house

watching the clear blue waves

engulf the sand beneath your toes

You're standing there thinking:

"Just what did my grandmother mean

when she said 'Boy, there'll be days

when everything will mock you and wonder

who you are!' " And you laugh to yrself a

rueful laugh the way you used to in those

talkshow waiting rooms & Mafia-stained

"dressing rooms" when you were told that

it was "time" for you to "go on next"

And I remember that day you came on so cool

and relaxed in a beautiful green shirt on the

TONIGHT SHOW listening nonchalantly to an 85

year old whitewoman in pretty whitelace moan

on and on about the "good ole days" while glancing

furtively in your sweet hipster direction. You

are smoking a cigarette very leisurely and calmly

waiting waiting for a chystalline moment you somehow

know is coming. Even Johnny knows it, but the audience

is not quite prepared: "YOU MEAN LIKE WHEN THEY WERE

LYNCHING NIGGERS, RIGHT?" and the lady blanches a grey

silver color and Johnny literally falls backward in

howling laughter and the audience doesn't know if it

wants to gasp or groan so it nervously does both and

all this time you are still drawing slowly on that

endless cigarette thinking about the first time you

met your third wife and the cocaine party she invited

you to. Yes, you are a hero to everyone but yrself and

we love you even more when you reject us, knowing you do

that to remind us not to take anything or anyone that is

truly real and loving for granted

Deadpan David

The Harlem Conquistador

(For David Henderson at the Detroit Institute of Arts: 3/17/83)

David watches us

while reading

his heavy lowered lids

a half drawn windowshade

this urban(e) conjure man

redefines the very idea of the

Fisheye or is that Deadeye?

Anyway he swims in Accuracy

Deadpan David asphalt root doctor

slips in crevices where consciousness

hides. Invites our ears to fatback dinner

at his place. Tosses the Sun at us like a

beachball. The moon an orange crescent spins

in small circles above his wide Egyptian head.

Slivers of light stream from his mouth especially

when he smiles. Like T. Monk a sly radiance bucks

and wings an angular stride down elegant boulevards

Deadpan David linguistic herbalist

administers jokes and riddles to aching

heads and moaning hearts. Soothes with serious

sweet tea that defies all sugar(s). Winks with

the 3rd eye, peeks around history's corners with

the "other 2." From Lee Morgan to Azania and back

again. From bright Lee Morgan to struggling South Africa and back again. No apartheid! No! No exploding diamond minds No!! Golems buy the Kruggerand Jive. Golems buy the Kruggernad Jive.

Deadpan David falsetto crooner

reveals "rows of tasty zeros" in Colorado

and everywhere else we hide during fake

birthday parties for Freedom. Deadpan David

uptown mackman comes to conquer us with truth

one more time. Comes to conquer us with Truth

one more time. Comes to conquer with truth just

one more time. One more time One more time.

For John Coltrane

Coltrane subdivides the air into

massive columns of Space

He fills all the Space all the

Time with brazen mathematical emotions

Firestorms of disciplined thoughts

burn down the path of certainty

A roaring expansion into millions of singing

labyrinths thundering toward the precise

articulation of what he knows & does not

No All the Time in all the Space

A face exploding into trillions of sounds

A heart mowing down memories

A soul sucking up the light soaking the bones

in Oceans of Energy Air charging molecules

inside holograms of Awareness

Intervals smashing stars and spitting them

out into the empty black sky

Coltrane is a terrible cleansing force

A holy divebomber in saxophone Jets

A killer with the Healing Eye

A Melodic arsonist

A Harmonic hierogyph

A rhythmic hurricane

Flowers that bleed

real tears

SOUNDESCAPE: FOR CECIL TAYLOR

(NOTE: The following poem must be read both silently and aloud in realtime via various multiple tempos, rhythms, sonorities, cadences, and tonalities no matter what the prevailing ambient conditions and circumstances happen to be)

tumblin holocaustic rundown in spiral cages feather kissin

fall/in ascending bricknoise churning window dressin in dollar

chasin eyeslide eggshell on sightlite tippin fever jump rip

flame

rancid oilneck rapin towelcover treeclimb thru snorting

ankles

in midflight papersacks perforating windblown ectasy

ruffles…jackelhandle jackelhandel jackelhandle nosebleed

sprint fumbles dynablastic inconsequence shuttle turndown

upstumble slyspy spindle spastic spleasure spintitalation

layback clouds listless telephone terror trubbles tearout

teardripples summerleap swinheat hurdles hackinhenodrics

hackindronics hackinheduntracfoil fowel flipchics

and Ilooklikelattimores wyndoe werth whattle

choresdoorsfloorsingaytic in blipbloc fleafloc flickers flakkle

femflams stammin nonkite evowel lapp pinttle evok kly yott

tuosed dimmygla azertafeet tyopplenazicdata aquadata

gumbo ah datagumbo o agumbo o o o o o o gee turtleplease

sneeze to cheese why nottinham jam lam scam mum mumble

numb cuedrooic spacexixxle spacicle spazizzles

oundescape CECIL soundescape CECIL

soundescapeCECIL(cecil!) soundescape CECIL

SOUNDESCAPE ESCAPE ESCAPE

STREETNEWS (CIRCA 88)

Yo homeboy, bus this. You're clockin if you think me and my posse would bite your Nine or dukey rope. All I wanna do is get skeezed, do some cold lampin while slammin with much fresh def jams. My crew ain't out to dis the fly skeezer with the stupid fresh project gold. We ain’t no rockstars! We keep our steel close by but we don’t be about slippin. You don't need to sweat us. That's ill. Any knocka press us we tax 'em or wax ‘em. All that wildin come from cuz who is dustin. Our shit is raw. Everything we do is def. We be lampin with some choice 40 dog while having our jimbrowskis served. Now that’s truly cole medina.

Beam me up Scotty. My homegirl needs a mega blast. I'm wearin my Louies cause I’m the New Jack. I let them ill while I chill. My snap protects me from bein a sucka. Don’t dis me. I’m fly & stupid! All I need now is some flavavision. Then I’ll be slammin.

Get busy or get lost, know what I’m sayin? Gon find me a crew that won't bite other MCs but find some beats that will wax the deserving and elevate the misunderstood. Def love is my destination, stupid fresh slammin is my closest relation.I ain’t sellin nothin but bubblegum & hardtimes, & I’m fresh out of bubblegum. We can do dis like Brutus if you're so inclined. Bring back your posse and we'll step it off flash style

O baby you so fly so you know why I need you to rock Jimmy. Skeezin is my desire, I ain’t no liar. So shake it but don’t break it. Be in with you is always def. Don’t dis ma needs baby and I’ll hold up yr side of the sky. We can get stupid and not sweat it if we maintain. It’s time for cold lampin in the face of their disgrace. Jimmy loves ya and so do I! Bein with you is cole medina baby. Bein with you ...

SONNYMOON FOR US ALL
(For the greatest saxophonist in the world: Sonny Rollins)

SONNY ROLLINS

(b. September 7, 1930)

WHEN SONNY STANDS IN FOR THE MOON
WE HEAR SUCH A GLORIOUS TUNE
IT'S ALWAYS A BIT OF A SWOON
WHEN SONNY STANDS IN FOR THE MOON

THE SONG COULD BE AUGUST OR JUNE
A HELL OF A BURST OR A BOON
WAILING AT MIDNIGHT OR NOON
WHEN SONNY STANDS IN FOR THE MOON

TRANSVERSING HARMONIC LAGOONS
HE PLAYS THRU OUR FEARS AND OUR WOUNDS
HIS HORN IS A RHYTHMIC PLATOON
WHEN SONNY STANDS IN FOR THE MOON

I THINK I WILL SOON BE A LOON
OR AT LEAST A RAVING BABOON
IF I DON'T GET TO HEAR SOME MORE TUNES
FROM THAT SOARING MELODIC BALLOON

O ROLLINS BLOWS HEAT CAN BE FIERCE OR SO SWEET

YEAH SONNY SWINGS FULL LIKE THE MOON
YEAH SONNY SWINGS FULL LIKE THE MOON
YEAH SONNY SWINGS FULL LIKE THE MOON
YEAH SONNY SWINGS FULL LIKE THE MOON...

THE FIRE THIS TIME
(For James Baldwin, 1924-1987)

“The time has come, God knows, for us to examine ourselves, but we can only do this if we are willing to free ourselves of the myth of America and try to find out what is really happening here. Every society is really governed by hidden laws, by unspoken but profound assumptions on the part of the people, and ours is no exception. It is up to the American writer to find out what these laws and assumptions are. In a society much given to smashing taboos, without thereby managing to be liberated from them, it will be no easy matter. In this endeavor to wed the vision of the Old World with that of the New, it is the writer, not the statesman, who is our strongest arm. Though we do not wholly believe it yet, the interior life is a real life, and the intangible dreams of a people have a tangible effect on the world."

--- James Baldwin
"The Discovery of what it Means To Be An American"
NOBODY KNOWS MY NAME (1961)

James Baldwin

(b. August 2, 1924--d. December 1, 1987)

As you know James

we are so blind here
Ignorance is what covers our
eyes when we see yr words.

We cower in the huge light that are
yr words. Our feeble jaws lock when we
try to speak those words. Those soaring and
powerful songs that are yr words. Our lips tremble
before their grace and passion. Before their pain and
majesty. Before their love and death.
Before their rich and searching beauty we stand around
and gulp the static air. fumbling before desire we fall in the
endless hole of Memory. It is always there that we find you
talking in the tongues of our dreams.

So many Nights praying for the Day to appear!
So many days waiting for Night to arrive!!
(We are such children here). Yet we lack even their simple
honesty as we hide behind our fear.

The Fear that "keeps us alive"
The Fear that “ensures our survival."

Was it yr sad and accusatory eyes that saw us so clearly?
Was it yr large and prideful head that stood above the storm?

No...

You are so much more than the heartless sage
who waits to see our vapid tears
You are not the Royal Mandarin who aches to feel our sickness
You are the healer who uses wisdom to push us into the Fire and not be afraid of the Heat it makes…

"When I was a young boy, I used to read Chinese and Japanese poetry, and I loved the form the Japanese created called the haiku. So I created an Afro-American form called the loku, which is just short. We don't have time to count the syllables.”

–Amiri Baraka (1934-2014)

Three Loku Poems

by Kofi Natambu

American Exceptionalism

Only one country in the
history of the world
has ever used an atomic bomb

Age of the Scumbag

The difference between
murder and suicide can be found
in the lies told to justify them

GOP: Grand Old Perversions

Land of the spree and home of the knave
this eternal domain of the 3H Club
hatred hubris and hypocrisy

BILL DIXON: TRUMPET
MILFORD GRAVES: DRUMS

AT THE VILLAGE GATE:
NYC, MAY 27, 1984

by Kofi Natambu

Luminosity's glare
fierce timbre vowels that
pierce invisible shields our pores
breathing in slivers of light
This compelling lure its open space
hidden creases in the swollen zone of
Sound

Streaking hearts trembling the fading distance that raises thought (THOTH?)
from feelings Touch from yearnings This bursting time implosion how does it
explode the vertical void that rules the AIR?

O gigantic creeping light seeping thru the earth its howling language a moving
source of Color Acute dimensions lyricizing our minds' most transparent desires
Spiralling tears of motion
a burning spectrum peering across colors' Dominion(s)
seeking blueness in an Ocean of Red
seeking blueness in an Ocean of Red
seeking blueness in an Ocean of Red

the flowing liquids running over glass enclosures Tabla tables of Earth
a slittering rippling sliding invocation: Tonalities hieroglyphic Melodic
holograms Now you FEEL the sound (now you HERE it!)
Blastic splutters rappling contexts
And what about the Night notes crashed thru colossal windows & glowing stones
found a place to rest amidst the huge soothing clatter?
Another pace/race breaks expectations' web

A brilliant shining this rampaging joy that cuts down all the Pain into
ectastic children of Memory: the Souls efflorescence How awful it all is
How AWE FULL! Flames flickering inside the Glare, luminosity's not-so-sullen-
secret as we dance in the wake of bestial surprises

Stutter past sidewalks dissolving in the blazing rain a staggering encounter this
Monstrous Joy that slips a stance
Crooked guffaws split lazy rhythmic questions
its nonreferential power that wants nothing especially its Self
This glance this chance this dance this prance this lance this stance
that charges charges that charges charges admission to everyone at once

Inconsequential stirrings in the Heart
a rumbling MOJO expanding the leafy village between our Ears
fears melting down like rainfall searing the darkness
This is the energy we call Revelation
This is the Life we call
Free…………………………………………………………………………….

KOFI NATAMBU

Poetry

Poems

For Miles Davis

Miles blows blue holes thru red skies

Deadpan David

The Harlem Conquistador

(For David Henderson at the Detroit Institute of Arts: 3/17/83)

For John Coltrane

© 1991, The Melody Never Stops by Kofi Natambu, Past Tents Press.

SOUNDESCAPE: FOR CECIL TAYLOR

(NOTE: The following poem must be read both silently and aloud in realtime via various multiple tempos, rhythms, sonorities, cadences, and tonalities no matter what the prevailing ambient conditions and circumstances happen to be)

STREETNEWS (CIRCA 88)

SONNYMOON FOR US ALL
(For the greatest saxophonist in the world: Sonny Rollins)

THE FIRE THIS TIME
(For James Baldwin, 1924-1987)

James Baldwin

Three Loku Poems

by Kofi Natambu

American Exceptionalism

Age of the Scumbag

GOP: Grand Old Perversions

BILL DIXON: TRUMPET
MILFORD GRAVES: DRUMS

AT THE VILLAGE GATE:
NYC, MAY 27, 1984

KOFI NATAMBU READING AT ST. MARKS POETRY CENTER IN NYC ON NEW YEAR'S DAY 1989

"The Semiotics of Apartheid"

by Kofi Natambu

MY READING BEGINS @ 20:14 AND ENDS @ 24:56

AMIRI BARAKA READS FOR THE FIRST 20 MINUTES and once again after my reading for the final 3 minutes of the video

Poetry

Poems

For Miles Davis

​

Miles blows blue holes thru red skies

Deadpan David

The Harlem Conquistador

(For David Henderson at the Detroit Institute of Arts: 3/17/83)

​

For John Coltrane

​

​

© 1991, The Melody Never Stops by Kofi Natambu, Past Tents Press.

​

​

SOUNDESCAPE: FOR CECIL TAYLOR

​

(NOTE: The following poem must be read both silently and aloud in realtime via various multiple tempos, rhythms, sonorities, cadences, and tonalities no matter what the prevailing ambient conditions and circumstances happen to be)

​

STREETNEWS (CIRCA 88)

SONNYMOON FOR US ALL (For the greatest saxophonist in the world: Sonny Rollins)

THE FIRE THIS TIME (For James Baldwin, 1924-1987)

James Baldwin

Three Loku Poems

by Kofi Natambu

​

American Exceptionalism

​Age of the Scumbag

GOP: Grand Old Perversions

​

BILL DIXON: TRUMPET MILFORD GRAVES: DRUMS

AT THE VILLAGE GATE: NYC, MAY 27, 1984

KOFI NATAMBU READING AT ST. MARKS POETRY CENTER IN NYC ON NEW YEAR'S DAY 1989

​

"The Semiotics of Apartheid"

by Kofi Natambu

​

MY READING BEGINS @ 20:14 AND ENDS @ 24:56

​

​

​

​

AMIRI BARAKA READS FOR THE FIRST 20 MINUTES and once again after my reading for the final 3 minutes of the video

SONNYMOON FOR US ALL
(For the greatest saxophonist in the world: Sonny Rollins)

THE FIRE THIS TIME
(For James Baldwin, 1924-1987)

Age of the Scumbag

BILL DIXON: TRUMPET
MILFORD GRAVES: DRUMS

AT THE VILLAGE GATE:
NYC, MAY 27, 1984