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Between The Night & Its Shadow
between the night & its shadow is the music
between the music & the night is the song
between the song & the music is the voice
between the voice & the music is the self
between the self & its song is the mind
between the mind & the song is the melody
between the song & its melody is the rhythm
between the rhythm & the melody is the mind
between the mind & its song is the word
between the word & the mind is the voice
between the voice & the word is the thought
between the thought & the voice is the self
between the word & the self is the shadow
between the shadow & the self is the light
between the light & the word is the music
(the song is the melody in the word in the rhythm
the self holds the mind to the word & the thought of the song
the voice in the song sings the self to the mind
the light lights the shadow of the voice & its melody
the rhythm moves the self through the dimming night’s song
the thought in the song is of night’s shadows without music)
Nostalgia For The Light
After Patricio Guzman
there’s not a hint of water
in the air above the atacama desert
only light older than time
time comes late among the stars
that flock to the atacama
desert to be seen
you can hear the big bang’s
string tones
mark the tempi
of bursting stellae
whose supreme distance
makes a nullity of hours
among the motes of light
that dust the bones
that fill the atacama desert
every memory is buried
in the sky
above the atacama desert
the enslaved indigenes who
scooped saltpeter from the sand
the ancient herdsmen whose herd
memories are the freest here
they at least could carve
their images among the llama
into the neutral stones
call these shepherds origins
call death a theme of origin
say time & light
are witnesses to origin
that renew but don’t remain
when pinochet delivered his pet corpses
here did he note the brilliant
night? did he see time end
in the fatal illumination
the antique carcass ghost
light of stars that died
in the time before time
before our earth was born
light that seeps into the sands
is calcified & stored amid
the shards of the disappeared
to be sorted with the tears
of the mothers who sift
time sand & light
for the reliquary bones
of their loves?
of us all these women know time
best for it is dressed
in absence & the tools
of remembrance: a photograph
the top half of a skull
a mummified foot still in it’s sock
& now a grotesque
mantel sculpture
time in the atacama desert
is abolished by the bones
The Congo God Teaches J. S. Bach A Dance
After Ned Sublette
when i n’sala banda the congo god
of iron & storm left the barracoons
of fernando po all they left of me
was a tactile memory of the drum
stored in hands cuffed in my essence
the iron of my image
in the alimentary basement of a ship
redolent of piss & shit & puke
& the stale but hopeful bouquet
of death
what’s a god to make of that?
what demons can corrupt
my elements this way? what demons
can lower my lovers to this?
. . .
they bartered gods
in the babel-mouth
cane fields of matanzas
& i got sung
as zarabanda & rhymed
with ogun of the yoruba
who too exhaled
the ferrous fire
in the dancing forests
my lovers sang to the feral tree
emptied its chest to tone the drum
left a little blood on the inside
of the skin so the drum
would house a soul
to tell my shame
to my thunder & flash
my anger on the sky
…
drum & song
splayed toes tap patterns
into black soil in the congo time
my drums spell out
at midnight worship in the deep
rain forest where
i ride my children
pump the arms chatter
the castanets swing
the hips snap the spine
post an image of the nazarene
in case the priests show up
they know too little of rhythm
to name the god inside it
…
one day i will reign here
…
at the feast of corpus christi
in havana & sevilla my children
roiled the spirits of the mob
with the zarabanda
the church thought my dance a bridge
to hell: padre juan de mariana called it
“so …lascivious…in its sway
that it was enough
to set decent people afire”
covarrubias de orozco thought my dance
so evil the jews must have created it
…
the priests were not entirely wrong
my children built iron into the drums
to set me in each cadence & i mounted
souls in every dancing crowd
my tempi set in the marrow
rose through the arteries
flooded all reason
the priests screamed “demonic possession”
& flexed their crucifixes but i
had the drum & my drum
was seditious
…
the strings from the sahel north
of congo sang my beat in sevilla
in naples over france into
the germanys in the new voice
of guitar
less evangelical
than the drum
away from my children
my chants fell out
my beat could barely move
dressed in silks & perfumed
to be presented
to the court just out
of plainsong &
wanting to dance
without a notion of swing
so they smuggled my bleached-out
sarabande through the servants’ entrance
where sebastian bach found it
& called it new
The Women I Have Not Slept With
For all my friends who have written tell-all memoirs
they number in the trillions &
that’s if i only count the living
for example, i have not slept with sarah palin &
not because she shoots large mammals for fun
i have not slept with her because
she’s too far right & i’m too far left
& that’s too much miscegenation to arouse
nor have i had sex with that woman monica lewinsky
or hillary clinton though i did have a shot
at hillary & i have a photograph to prove it
that’s me shaking hands with her
head cocked to the side
a mating signal in every primate male
& i think i saw something in the curl of her mouth
but i couldn’t make my move there in the gold room
with the line pushing at my back
but we’ll see we’ll see
i have not slept with madonna
before you get the impression
that i’ve only not slept with white women
i have not slept with oprah either
no fault of hers no fault of mine
we just never hooked up
never made it with vanessa williams & that one hurts
she once split from a sexual fantasy of mine
took one look at my admittedly adipose body & disappeared
from my fantasy
& wouldn’t come back
broke my tumescent heart
& then there’s chaka khan
sweet sweet sweet chaka
the lust of my life
i did get to hug her once
a nice belly to belly rub
but my boss was in the room
& it went nowhere
she sent me a box of chakalets
& so it goes or doesn’t
if i haven’t slept with you &
haven’t mentioned you please don’t be offended
i’m not the kind of guy to not kiss & tell & anyway
i thought you deserved your own poem
.
A. B. Spellman is a poet and writer on jazz who lives in Washington with his perfect wife , Karen.
between the night & its shadow is the music
between the music & the night is the song
between the song & the music is the voice
between the voice & the music is the self
between the self & its song is the mind
between the mind & the song is the melody
between the song & its melody is the rhythm
between the rhythm & the melody is the mind
between the mind & its song is the word
between the word & the mind is the voice
between the voice & the word is the thought
between the thought & the voice is the self
between the word & the self is the shadow
between the shadow & the self is the light
between the light & the word is the music
(the song is the melody in the word in the rhythm
the self holds the mind to the word & the thought of the song
the voice in the song sings the self to the mind
the light lights the shadow of the voice & its melody
the rhythm moves the self through the dimming night’s song
the thought in the song is of night’s shadows without music)
Nostalgia For The Light
After Patricio Guzman
there’s not a hint of water
in the air above the atacama desert
only light older than time
time comes late among the stars
that flock to the atacama
desert to be seen
you can hear the big bang’s
string tones
mark the tempi
of bursting stellae
whose supreme distance
makes a nullity of hours
among the motes of light
that dust the bones
that fill the atacama desert
every memory is buried
in the sky
above the atacama desert
the enslaved indigenes who
scooped saltpeter from the sand
the ancient herdsmen whose herd
memories are the freest here
they at least could carve
their images among the llama
into the neutral stones
call these shepherds origins
call death a theme of origin
say time & light
are witnesses to origin
that renew but don’t remain
when pinochet delivered his pet corpses
here did he note the brilliant
night? did he see time end
in the fatal illumination
the antique carcass ghost
light of stars that died
in the time before time
before our earth was born
light that seeps into the sands
is calcified & stored amid
the shards of the disappeared
to be sorted with the tears
of the mothers who sift
time sand & light
for the reliquary bones
of their loves?
of us all these women know time
best for it is dressed
in absence & the tools
of remembrance: a photograph
the top half of a skull
a mummified foot still in it’s sock
& now a grotesque
mantel sculpture
time in the atacama desert
is abolished by the bones
The Congo God Teaches J. S. Bach A Dance
After Ned Sublette
when i n’sala banda the congo god
of iron & storm left the barracoons
of fernando po all they left of me
was a tactile memory of the drum
stored in hands cuffed in my essence
the iron of my image
in the alimentary basement of a ship
redolent of piss & shit & puke
& the stale but hopeful bouquet
of death
what’s a god to make of that?
what demons can corrupt
my elements this way? what demons
can lower my lovers to this?
. . .
they bartered gods
in the babel-mouth
cane fields of matanzas
& i got sung
as zarabanda & rhymed
with ogun of the yoruba
who too exhaled
the ferrous fire
in the dancing forests
my lovers sang to the feral tree
emptied its chest to tone the drum
left a little blood on the inside
of the skin so the drum
would house a soul
to tell my shame
to my thunder & flash
my anger on the sky
…
drum & song
splayed toes tap patterns
into black soil in the congo time
my drums spell out
at midnight worship in the deep
rain forest where
i ride my children
pump the arms chatter
the castanets swing
the hips snap the spine
post an image of the nazarene
in case the priests show up
they know too little of rhythm
to name the god inside it
…
one day i will reign here
…
at the feast of corpus christi
in havana & sevilla my children
roiled the spirits of the mob
with the zarabanda
the church thought my dance a bridge
to hell: padre juan de mariana called it
“so …lascivious…in its sway
that it was enough
to set decent people afire”
covarrubias de orozco thought my dance
so evil the jews must have created it
…
the priests were not entirely wrong
my children built iron into the drums
to set me in each cadence & i mounted
souls in every dancing crowd
my tempi set in the marrow
rose through the arteries
flooded all reason
the priests screamed “demonic possession”
& flexed their crucifixes but i
had the drum & my drum
was seditious
…
the strings from the sahel north
of congo sang my beat in sevilla
in naples over france into
the germanys in the new voice
of guitar
less evangelical
than the drum
away from my children
my chants fell out
my beat could barely move
dressed in silks & perfumed
to be presented
to the court just out
of plainsong &
wanting to dance
without a notion of swing
so they smuggled my bleached-out
sarabande through the servants’ entrance
where sebastian bach found it
& called it new
The Women I Have Not Slept With
For all my friends who have written tell-all memoirs
they number in the trillions &
that’s if i only count the living
for example, i have not slept with sarah palin &
not because she shoots large mammals for fun
i have not slept with her because
she’s too far right & i’m too far left
& that’s too much miscegenation to arouse
nor have i had sex with that woman monica lewinsky
or hillary clinton though i did have a shot
at hillary & i have a photograph to prove it
that’s me shaking hands with her
head cocked to the side
a mating signal in every primate male
& i think i saw something in the curl of her mouth
but i couldn’t make my move there in the gold room
with the line pushing at my back
but we’ll see we’ll see
i have not slept with madonna
before you get the impression
that i’ve only not slept with white women
i have not slept with oprah either
no fault of hers no fault of mine
we just never hooked up
never made it with vanessa williams & that one hurts
she once split from a sexual fantasy of mine
took one look at my admittedly adipose body & disappeared
from my fantasy
& wouldn’t come back
broke my tumescent heart
& then there’s chaka khan
sweet sweet sweet chaka
the lust of my life
i did get to hug her once
a nice belly to belly rub
but my boss was in the room
& it went nowhere
she sent me a box of chakalets
& so it goes or doesn’t
if i haven’t slept with you &
haven’t mentioned you please don’t be offended
i’m not the kind of guy to not kiss & tell & anyway
i thought you deserved your own poem
.
A. B. Spellman is a poet and writer on jazz who lives in Washington with his perfect wife , Karen.
