the lady in autumn

She would never dream of arriving at a session
Looking like a first take--not like the bass player
With his shirt collar rising and rolling
Like some unplanted meadow on an Upstate hillside,
Or the trumpeter whose ancient corduroys
Have not seen a pressing in months if ever,
Or the sad young man at the mixing board
With the hair sticking out like wire brushes
Splayed for the softest swish possible.
She would never dream of appearing in any manner
Not fully together, the muted gold blouses
(Accentuated with a bright red scarf)
The tailored skirts of crimson or brown,
Hair freshly salon-coiffed, lipstick and makeup just so.
As she is not a performer as much as the stuff of legend,
And those hunched over traps and cymbals
Or bunched cheek-to-jowl with the acoustic tile
Are utterly bewitched by the sounds,
So familiar yet with all the life of twenty years earlier,
Yet the tape playback seems to file a dissenting opinion:
There is a certain frailty to the timbre,
The odd hitch and hesitation in the phrasing
(She does not betray much while listening,
One headphone pressed to a single ear,
Save for the odd fleeting furrow to the forehead)
But it is something that is paid little mind,
The quartet and singer plowing ahead
Until such time she gathers coat and purse
In a gesture which clearly states That is all for today
And she leaves the studio to walk the few blocks home,
Passing by some down-on-their-luck brownstones,
Their facades recently whitewashed in the vain hope
Of masking the irrevocable cracking in the walls,
The buckling of the edifice's foundation

Reviews

[LJW]

The last 4 lines summed her up.
You meant to do that.
You are truly a craftsman with words. There are few who can write with this kind of mixture of high intelligence, a love for the little-spoken word, and attention to detail in the area of imagery.
I would love to hear you reading your own poems.

[W.k.kortas]

Your kindness is more than my stuff deserves. My thanks, good lady.

[LJW]

Stop it and take it, old man!

[h d e rushin]

Lady Day perhaps, or Betty Carter. Or any one of a number of songstress who hitched their craft to Jimmie Scott's phrasing. Both profound and swollen with intellectual depth and humanity that like your first kiss, you forgot how you got home. They said that Norman Simmons was sometimes in tears after his set with Carter, drenched in both formula and dance from what had just happened. And it was the style, in the old days, especially of female singers, to even come to rehearsal dressed to the nines.

I am glad to hear your voice again; the summing up of formality like a captain giving out preemptory commands....Reminding us that poetry is both process and inevitability.......nicely written....dana

[jacob erin-cilberto]

when the music is extremely raw, like a frosty morning in autumn, she listens as long as she can, but instead of feeling jazzed by the sounds and sights, she is mortified, depressed by it all...and then returns to her disheveled life.
I love this one, W.k.
about time you returned to the board. You have been missed and your poetry is as good as it ever was...Top Notch words.
j.

[Delmar Cooper]

Good title. Let us talk of surfaces and whitewash and just the right type of aluminium siding or lame' blouses, and when we finish we can discuss the real things; those things we find with a deep scratch or two.

Good poem and I do like that title.