Soul at Sunrise

* I wrote this poem in the Winter of 2009 in my bed surrounded by two dictionaries, a raggedy thesaurus, and an anthology of Black poetry. In so many words, my computer died so it was the first time I literally wrote and revised a poem on paper in a while.

Soul at Sunrise

Seek solace in silence.

Learn the music of your past:

Listen as the genius jargon of Jazz scats

like baaalooo ayeeeeee ya diggy diggy—

for the dames and gents keep jonzin’ for a hit

of horns and drumkicks, guitars and trumpets

just Miles and ‘Trane and Monk and Getz

The muffled buzz of Bossa Nova skips

on vinyl like some smooth stone skimming

the lips of a swooning sea—

for the needle keeps grooving

into grains of thought; the downbeat

conversation of crackling fire

Warm and worn as a back-pocket poem

nestled in darkness but brilliantly scored.

And God says “Let there be spotlights,

and audience and stage and poet and mic!”

The air rips into a rhythmic rift,

rapid runnin’ rapture rushin’

Revolution is coming! Revolution is coming!

Word is Born goddammit

And even God can’t damn it;

He’s too busy jammin’ to the jive of June,

jiggin’ wit the gems and jewels

dreamin’ to a dissonant tune— the Cool:

the bullied Blues of Billie and Hughes

buried above trombones and tombs.

It’s the heavy hues of Suthun’ strange fruit

beaten to a pulp, lying in its own juice,

life fresh-squeezed out, freedom bleedin’ from the mouth

hangin’ like heartache, bro ken ‘til heart break.

The Art of snapping a spirit flips— into Soul:

A virgin-eyed, nostrils wide, mouth pried open tone

A funky cold, solid-gold, mocha Motown moan.

Velvet voices unravel like curls through a hot comb,

not vengeful, just strong

like tired old black ladies on Sunday mornin’,

old bones bumpin’, just clappin’ and stompin’ and loud

giving praise and shouting over somebody’s grave (Yes Lord Jehovah!)

in no shoes, no cares, and no pain— well, at least not until service is over

Four-hundred years of struggle on your back and shoulders ain’t light.

This music—is the fluttering feeling

of finally finding your fire

then letting your lips

revolt against each other

and loosening out one long, impossible note—

a sound so shaky and bleak,

so uncorrupted and sweet,

so powerful and meek,

that you will stand face-to-face

with the dark raspy, rib-rooted truth

only you know so well.

And you will rise

from the madness of this age,

a rare beacon of beauty,

with your head held to the heavens

howling your hymn—in the hem

of tomorrow’s history.

 -R.Gibsun