EDENBRAY ~ RETROSPECTIVE – 26

Posted on December 21, 2019 by edenbray

MARIANNE

Originally written and posted – 21.01.2012 ~ This was written in appreciation of poetry by Langston Hughes – the ‘Jazz’ poet

Re-posted- 21.12.2019 as part of an Edenbray Retrospective 

 

…

Marianne

… …

Marianne was an ordinary girl

born in an ordinary town and

she wore a flower-print dress

☤

Her brother Cane stole her honour

when she was still seventeen

and Marianne she did not cry

☤

Only promised that one day

while he weren’t looking

that he would certainly die

☤

Marianne skipped, not walked

when no one else was looking and

helped her mother with the cooking

☤

She had no friends apart from Tye

and tho’ that girls eyes filled up

she never had learned to cry

☤

She walked at night through

the lonesome Blacktown Wood

and talked her heart to Jesus

☤

She managed not to listen too

while them dumb river-boys

nagged with ribbons of abuse

☤

She dreamed of living with her sisters

near the ‘trotting’ racetrack

on the high road out of Syracuse

☤

Her father had bought her home

a pair of grey-blue sneakers

and she wore them till they tore

☤

She lay that night so hurt

on her palette bed watching stars

and realising why she swore

☤

Walking to work in the fall

it was her very first day

all she could do was smile

☤

She walked the long route

through Bennis-field cemetery

so she could feed them ponies

☤

‘Six-bits’ and one quarter

would give her a dollar each day

that she worked in tha’ fac-tor-ee

☤

Marianne so plain, so pretty

She kept her vermillion smile

from six in the morning till four

☤

When she heard the tale

of her brothers tragic death

she just sat and made her face

..

writtenbyedenbray21.01.2012

… …

..

☤ ☤ ☤

This poem is a dual-tribute to Langston Hughes, who wrote such great word combinations. Langston  was known as the jazz -poet and I have included here two pieces by the great man himself alongside my piece and some Articles and other random stuff and pictures – reflecting on this great and largely unrecognised writer that I have linked/lifted from Wikepedia the Free encyclopedia – which I subscribe to and support. I hope you enjoy these thoughts and writings and the idea behind them. – eb. 

☤ ☤ ☤

..

Six-Bits Blues

by Langston Hughes

…

Gimme six-bits’ worth o’ ticket
On a train that runs somewhere.
I say six-bits’ worth o’ ticket
On a train that runs somewhere.
I don’t care where it’s goin’
Just so it goes away from here. 

Baby, gimme a little lovin’
But don’t make it too long.
A little lovin’, babe, but
Don’t make it too long.
Make it short and sweet, your lovin’,
So I can roll along.

I got to roll along!

..

☤ ☤ ☤

..

The Negro Artist and The Racial Mountain

by Langston Hughes

…

The younger Negro artists who create now intend to express
our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame.
If white people are pleased we are glad. If they are not,
it doesn’t matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly, too.
The tom-tom cries, and the tom-tom laughs. If colored people
are pleased we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure
doesn’t matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow,
strong as we know how, and we stand on top of the mountain
free within ourselves.

The night is beautiful,
So the faces of my people.

The stars are beautiful,
So the eyes of my people

Beautiful, also, is the sun.
Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

…

☤ ☤ ☤

…

Three further links to Wikipedia Articles  >>>

…

Langston Hughes and ‘jazz poetry’ ~ Wikipedia the Free Encyclopedia

Vermillion or Vermilion as listed on Wikipedia

‘Six-bits blues’

 

☤

..

…

..

Original comment by Edenbray :    I tried to write this piece – clipped and plain – in a kind of staccato rhythm  –  just like jazz … this, after all is a sort of tribute to Langston Hughes who they give ‘jazz poetry’ to  …  but as with all good jazz – John Coltrane – Miles Davis – etc -etc  Jazz – it may rhyme and fall …  it may not … it can improvise … it can divert … tangent … it’s just an idea … a little random but it has a classic trail … I’m obsessed with traditional America … but there’s some Britain in it too – its kind of mixed! … #jazz

…

 

☤ ☤ ☤

… … …

Transcript from Jerry Maguire – the movie …

EX. Transcript Jerry Maguire

 EXT. PORCH -- NIGHT                Jerry on the porch, as Chad exits.  Chad now fully plays the
              part of friend with seniority.  Looks the taller Jerry up and
              down.
  CHAD                         Treat her right, man.  She's...

 93.    JERRY                                (self-conscious)
                        Yeah... well...
  CHAD                         She's great.  And I know this is
                        a little awkward, but I want you
                        to use this.
               Chad ruumages in bag for a moment.  Jerry is somewhat
              horrified at what Chad might be giving him.  Out comes a
              cassette tape.
  CHAD                                (continuing; intense)
                        This... is Miles Davis and John
                        Coltrane. Stockholm.  1963... two
                        masters of freedom, playing in a
                        time before their art was
                        corrupted by a zillion cocktail
                        lounge performers who destroyed
                        the legacy of the only American
                        artform -- JAZZ.
               Jerry takes the tape, as the front door squeaks open.
              Dorothy shoos Chad away, quietly leads Jerry inside.
milesdavis
Miles Davis

 

john_coltrane
John Coltrane
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EDENBRAY ~ RETROSPECTIVE – 25

Posted on December 19, 2019 by edenbray

SO LONG BLUES

Originally written and posted – 31.01.2012 – Re-posted – 19.12.2019 as part of an Edenbray Retrospective ~ an example of Jazz Poetry


… … …

The ~ So Long Blues

☂

I bin’ searchin’ and hungrin’ so long

Keeps’a lookin’ for the end … of the trail

and all I see’s is more grey, muddy water

more pale, scales – pictures o’ ma’ daughter

doin’ things, sayin’ things, she ain’t oughtta’

My life!? I bin’ kickin’ stones since I were six

Walkin’ roads with this train tumblin’ after

Smoke train, cattle train, gridded an’ cold

while I’s bin’ searching for that cave full o’gold

an’ I knows its round here some place, baby!

My pappy he once hit me round the face

Says, now son listen, this is just to tell you

Ain’t no one knows you better than your sell’

When you is on your knees, that is the safest place

Now get up son and be a MAN sometime!

I bin’ travellin’ on my knees for a lo-ong time

I bin’ tryin’ to be good, like my pappy

Een’ though that double ba-stard!

Tricked me an’ ma’ mom and left us

Holding no more than a pile a’ bills and a shack! 

Am’ listenin’ to this good ole’ night owl holler

He over there in them black-green bushes

I like to see them flyin’, cos they do what I cain’

Fly outta this damn place and keep on flyin’

Thass’ what I’d do anyway’s

..

.

… nice talkin’

.

writtenbyedenbray31.01.2012

abridged19.12.2019

♞

… this is a tribute to Linda Manz who provided the voice over on the genius Terence Mallick piece of art ~ ‘Days Of Heaven’

..

Linda: This farmer, he had a big spread, and a lot of money. Whoever was sitting in a chair when he’d come around, why they’d stand up and give it to him.

..
Linda: Wasn’t no harm in him. You’d give him a flower, he’d keep it forever.

..

This was another example of JAZZ poetry that I wrote at the time – it’s emotive, dramatic, honest, symbolic … what do you think?

..

#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation

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EDENBRAY ~ RETROSPECTIVE – 24

Posted on December 17, 2019 by edenbray

MARIE

Originally written and posted – 05.01.2012 – Re-posted – 17.12.2019

as part of an Edenbray Retrospective

… …

 

… …

MARIE

…

I caught the end of that summer when mayflies hatch and shimmer briefly

She had intoxicated me like soldiers gin and the burr of overripe barley

Her smile as keen and hearty as a cluster of blossom grapes crushed and bloodied

Her long, lanky legs made her stumble and skip like a new-born circus pony

†††°††

The war had drawn the soul of a nation, defined in lines of raw and burnt sienna

but through the worst Marie had written letters in rosehip and pure, raw honey

Her soft, children’s hands carried apples for winter and tied ribbons in curly gold

while she practised waiting for trains where sad stories may only falter and end

°

She taught by the experience of artful innocence and a blind, sanguine opulence

These she wore like garlands of convolvulus and ivy both pretty, pale and capricious

Her tousled hair was a generous reminder of how water is both gentle and perilous

and I soon learned that it were better to watch butterflies gambol than try to catch them

°

I caught her scent once on a trail at a Sunday afternoon traveling carnival and felt

I had never smelt nor seen a woman so fair or honest, she made the wind howl

and when that following summer certain boys in army flannel returned, arms full of care

I questioned whose need was greater those who fight or the slaves who govern the moon

°

For Marie there were no questions only causes to be dealt with by patience and candour

while her blouse, buttoned and laced, enchanted me more than a mermaid or siren  

whose spells I fell under without knowing name, birthplace or the deep-sea that roars

they were the many voices that called, like forgotten friends who appear in dreams

°

It was again late in the burnt September that I heard a bird with the bluest, blue feathers

and knew he had slipped in the wind on his forage trail so I kneeled for two hours long 

I drank of the hope he carried in that lonely night between marbled war and stoney peace

That bird lit a fire in my heart whose embers glowed and thrilled as only captains dream.

..

° 

writtenbyedenbray05.01.2012

 

..

#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation

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EDENBRAY ~ RETROSPECTIVE – 23

Posted on December 16, 2019 by edenbray

UNTITLED

Originally written & posted ~ 20.12.2011 – Re-posted – 16.12.2019

as part of an Edenbray retrospective

… …
japonica – a God flower

UNTITLED

…   …

Gonna’ hang my head in sorrow

Gonna’ hang my head in shame

I got the trouble and I got the blame

For the freedom I borrowed

Is now to me a torture and a pain

She came up on the airwaves

Bright hope, n’she gave a spark to life

Kindred people, foursquare down

they’re all holding hands and praying

While the masters son on that sunlit night

was here while the wolves were baying

And he saw that same pain and terror

He caught the image of our scarred remains

No hospital bed for him either

Just jagged nails, un-planed wood…

Come now people who gather

Hear the blessed words of a tiger

as the blood is letting from a torn paw

from a grey-cold broken heart

from a coat so blood-stained and striped 

from a broken dream as close as a promise

and from a simple prayer somewhere

for a brand new start – an honest start

Jasmine, Japonica, sweet smelling flower, 

warm, generous and so full of light!

..

writtenbyedenbray(anditsnearlyChristmas)20.12.11

Re-posted16.12.2019

..

My poetry is almost always about ‘feeling’ – I like to fuse tradition, history, religion, spirituality together – To me, most of the time – these things are indivisible – I hate categories, classifications, set genres and labelling of any kind – make what you will of this piece – but of course I hope you like it.

( ~ Previous comment :~ Precious Christ knows our failures; our demons; our misgivings. You’ve turned pain into grace. I am touched and humbled. ~ Jessica Renea )

#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation

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PROG-PROSE – an introduction

Posted on December 14, 2019 by edenbray

PROG-PROSE

…

an introduction

i am a writer not a scientist

i am a writer not an artist

… 

i am a sculptor not a mortician

i am a child not an adult

i am an introduction not a real thing

…

hashtag#edenbray

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EDENBRAY ~ RETROSPECTIVE – 22

Posted on December 10, 2019 by edenbray

FREEDOM’S SON

Originally written and posted 20.12.2011 ~ Re-posted 10.12.2019

as part of an edenbray retrospective

… … …

… … …

Freedom’s Son

.

The dumber dark sod of a creamier winter than I remember ~
Of the naked trail of me and my girl looking down on the moving town
We were restless and naive or dancing stock full of Blake’s innocence
I coulda’ cupped her breast in my flickering grasp or pressed warm lips against hers
But I heard the voice of people’s talking and the scant blue sky rolled its eye
We frolicked then with freedom as lambs, leaves and kites are prone to do
Determined and resolute in a still-born manner, I transgressed that sodden snow
Yet who then listens to logic worn or brittle-bone speeches, incantations
from empty spell wizards with cavernous heads and small grey eyes?
We have been born with a vision like wet clay on a soldiers bloodied boot
We can again shape a madonna smile, a naked infants belly and a bakers brick oven all
Where then will we put so many failed dreams if not to be within our care-worn hearts?
Where indeed is the mothers experience when relationships die and the second son
is now the only one bothered or angry to break his silence, his heart and cry?
Fourteen years is a lifetime when you’re still yearning to fly forward
yet in the dredged plumes of grey-bird smoke that trails so many lives
there is always a gnawing monster who follows every precious step
aims to catch and pin every sun-gold memory like laurel-stained butterflies
and travels like a steaming train through landscapes loving, burned or swollen
The liberty bell still ringing – draws the people from their church
where an army of small coloured children are singing and clapping happy hello’s. 

..

writtenbyedenbray20.12.11

albion

 

 

 

 

 

 

#Authors note ~ sometimes I feel the need to qualify the things I say and do – like I have an unseen eye hovering over me – I am my sternest critic – I am the law of what is right or wrong and what is allowed and yet again sometimes I don’t – Freedom’s Son can be any males perspective – which sounds more exclusive than it is meant  – Again I resort to my  Jessica Phirri – my priest – my vouchsafe – does she qualify me or confirm me? She exonerates me and probably says what I want to hear. – edenbray today 

January 4, 2012 at 2.06 am – ‘As always, EB, your words make me feel; make me think. “We have been born with a vision like wet clay on a soldiers bloodied boot” really means quite a lot and perfectly expresses the mixed emotions I feel about love and life. What a wordsmith you truly are. What apprehension we must live with when living and dying all at the same time. God Bless YOU’

#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation

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EDENBRAY ~ RETROSPECTIVE – 21

Posted on December 10, 2019 by edenbray

THE RAILWAY MAN ( or I DREAMED UP AMERICA)

Originally posted on December 12, 2011 – Re-posted – 09.12.2019
part of an Edenbray Retrospective
…. … ..
TRAIN
.

THE RAILWAY MAN ( or  I DREAMED UP AMERICA )

… … …

I, is a lover not a fighter and I work on trains

My calloused hands happy next to softened skin

Not fingering the trigger, not sighting the kill

Nor riding the bronco, nor the soldiers greed

¥

I’se got two hours in town with a lady of mine

that I met when she needed a friend and I was lonely

We drank bourbon in ‘Huskeys’ and spoke of the future

She then told me of certain things she had lost

¥

I’se wishin’ maybe one day I would settle down

Until I hears that lonely whistle blowin’

and I starts to think again of Sophie-Dawn that girl

I met last summer when the sun was hot in Bakersville

¥

Her hair was auburn and fell down her back like water

We let our passions run in the back of a grey-blue Buick

I promised her I would see her again and she laughed

and said she had more chance of meeting Jesus

¥

The smoke, the oil, the sweat and blackened coal,

The thunder of her loving wheels, this engine smooth

rocks me, soothes me till I’m walking on my knees

and Anna Sway is calling me from Aidan County

¥

Where the bluest mountains rise and the dark river

Deep and meaningful draws my soulful sense

Amid the rumble and the stink of this ashpan hopper

I’se still grip the throttle lever and the crank shifts awkward

¥

The old steam-chest snorts, the eccentric rod

engaged and oiled begins to travel like thunder

Over and beyond the blushing landscape of my hearts ease

Where lace dreams deny the passion of the day

¥

Where young Donna May is living with her mother

or Pieter Gotlander, a childhood bride at 17

who ran away from her murderous husband

He had threatened to kill her, her sister and her lover

¥

I’se a railway man, and I’se seen the sun set in many counties

Here at the dawn of a new America and in June

I saw my first brown bear fishing steelhead at the brow

of those swirling rapids in the cold Muskegon River

¥

I dreams of ladies fair and bare it gets me through this day

and tomorrow is taking care of itself for me I reckie’

I’se a railway tiller, an engineer of silver steel

I’se not in a hurry to get home or afraid to roam

¥

Taking my time, I’se fine, I’se in my prime

Have no hurry even to eat, or catch a bloodied dollar

There was a time when I did it all and some

and learned this engines hard but never cruel

¥

I hope to meet that black hunny Ellie, I met her once in Barry

She wore a fur coat, boots and sucked on candy lolly

and then I let her down one night, got held up

At the dust-ring watching two bloodied rovers fight

¥

I’se a natural liar I learned it from my ma’

Who taught me never take what you can buy

And never borrow what you might steal

Cos’ in the morning there’s a pedlar in us all

¥

Tonight this train is cold, laying on its back

By tomorrow evening I’se have run the derby

Run it there, delivered and collected my prize

These hot wet tears in my eyes just white stains

on some young woman’s dress!

… … …

writtenbyedenbray12.12.2011

..

Jessica Phirri says :- A character, a lonely man. A machine. A lifestyle disconnected, but sewn together by women. There is something about edenbray and the mechanics of living. Another fine tune, my s.m.

..

#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation

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EDENBRAY ~ RETROSPECTIVE – 20

Posted on December 9, 2019 by edenbray

BLACK DIAMONDS

Originally written and posted 21.12.2011 – Re-posted 09.12.2019

BLACK DIAMONDS

… …

He dressed in blackened soot whose eyes shone upon his bare and yellowed teeth
     He worn and torn, whose royal, calloused hand, held no change or caution in its flush
Battened, trained and tested, he doubtless and replete might live 10, the 20 less than many
     but still would carry brother ‘hame’ from dark the wilderness battle, the grim shadows dancing
I earned these scars for bearing down with gritted teeth and carving diamonds from my sorry flesh,
     Now is there any wonder the purple thunder in the dark night cavern is a woman’s hole?
          and a necessary mother to those who pay with perspiration, oiled hands
               and attend the birth of nations wealth, the rich man’s worn-silk purse, lovers mementoes
The day the siren blows like a death knell at this royal mile where only thoroughbred
   stallions enter and four maimed and broken ponies leave, drawn on a rickety cart to the bone-man
The glistening heat burns this sweat box over,  as men who are men, dream of women’s
     flesh or the soft sweet touch of a harbour friend with tattooed-bluebird and a faithful touch
In the centre of the earth only burnt goblins, wraith’s or branded saints can stand healthy
     So fathom the memory of those bruised gladiators carried from their duty unheralded
Born on the shoulders of the working classes, straight tall people who bowed their backs
     to grasp an egg omelette, a slice of dry soda bread and maybe a broiler in a pie on Sunday
These forgotten, muddied infantry of the foremost lines still treading and spreading
     Waiting on a word from God or a handout from the Pentecostal soup kitchen whose
          battered Yellow Coach-Bus they call ‘Emmy’ rolls into Market Square when all the good,
               fair people are rehearsing whispered promises and making plans for an evening with
                    solitaire, magazines and some oh so simple and po-lite conversation 
I wished I walked again in Steinbeck’s holy pages with faces wrinkled by a dagger-sun
     or scanned the white-fields where hands and figures boned,
          tend and care for ankles torn and bloodied by the day
A ‘mistral’ cat with a sharp eye is prowling hungry in the bare gorse bushes
     It’s fur is knotted brown, its clavicles and pelvis standing bare through thinnest skin
Its stalking game against a mandarin sky with its belly so full of kitten, so ripe to burst 
    A mothers face I see amid her salted torment, a face of recognition in a dry wind gusting
         this wind catching ever so lightly a chicken wing thrown from a tan-faced workman’s lunch-tin.
… …
writtenbyedenbray21.12.11

… …

Authors comment .. I think I discovered a rich vein of feeling for this piece – I think I wanted to capture the plight of the downtrodden – those who have worked so hard in tortuous circumstances for a mere pittance and little human reward so that others might benefit financially and enjoy a privileged lifestyle. I think all my work is about ‘feeling’. The saying goes ‘Manners maketh man’ and that does make for a fine saying and a catchy stanza of alliteration – but for me it is our feeling that makes us human. Compassion and kindness sets us apart from most animals. – edenbray today

My friend Jessica Phirri also commented – 04.01.2012 ~ Thank you for your rich painting of words and history and cultural distress. It really quite means something, EB. And how we take for granted the blood on our fingers! I love the pictures that you selected as well. It’s a humbling and faithful exercise to think of the downtrodden; the workers who push our world around its axis- the hands of God when we think we are our own. Your work is alive and speaking in tongues! ~ I loved these words she wrote for ‘Black Diamonds’ and I told her so. – edenbray today

#PROG-PROSE ~ Progressive Poetry – part of an #Edenbray retrospective – Re-posted today for a new generation

…

A Photo Glossary :

… Black Diamonds …

scene from ‘DAYS OF HEAVEN’
…
diamond worker with muddied face
…
DeBeer Diamond Mine Workers
…
‘ … where only thoroughbred stallions enter and four maimed and broken ponies leave … ‘
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ANYONE WHO HAD A HEART! ~ Guest Poem

Posted on December 9, 2019 by edenbray

Anyone Who Had a Heart

Anyone who ever loved could look at me
And know that I love you
Anyone who ever dreamed could look at me
And know I dream of you
Knowing I love you so

Anyone who had a heart
Would take me in his arms and love me, too
You couldn’t really have a heart and hurt me
Like you hurt me and be so untrue
What am I to do

Every time you go away, I always say
This time it’s goodbye, dear
Loving you the way I do
I take you back, without you I’d die dear
Knowing I love you so

Anyone who had a heart
Would take me in his arms and love me, too
You couldn’t really have a heart and hurt me
Like you hurt me and be so untrue
What am I to do

Knowing I love you so

Anyone who had a heart
Would take me in his arms and love me, too
You couldn’t really have a heart and hurt me
Like you hurt me and be so untrue
What am I to do …

..

Lyrics to the hit song that was sung by Dionne Warwick and Cilla Black

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THE LYRISIST

Posted on December 8, 2019 by edenbray

THE LYRISIST

. . .

matisse 2

. . .

.

The darkest clouds – Andronicus De Marvellos

Who stepped lightly through the night

Her face caught within by so brilliant a light

Surrounded by the midnight, prussian sky

And the wail of a coloured banshee closer

..

Andronicus De Marvellos – seventh daughter

of seven, pure as un-malted barley, wore no braids

She shimmied and swooned in another life

In another dress worn with petticoats and linen

Rhymed reasons and fiction, mending and cure

..

In the book where it was written – Andronicus et Articus

met betrothed manners and distant relative particularis

As though all words, or songs or feelings were born not imagined

Like moonshine just occurred, n’er created by depression driven

Or those houses of nighttime painted ‘out of love’ received or given

..

She walks the boards this lady fair whose gentle hands touch only joy

Andronicus De Marvellos not drawn by brawn or boyish bristle-gristle 

She feels for hope, she longs for peace – the only peaks or poise she ‘knaws

Though passion is a woman’s place et Andronicus she hides her painted claws

And through her perfumed pores sweats n’er the ugliness of mans cruel wars

..

Andronicus De Marvellos with space and time and colour for the infants care

Not drawn to giving sight of flesh or honest thought she plays ‘the maidens prayer’

On pianoforte, here in Russia, Belarus, Tibet, Rome, Alexandria or Cheyenne 

The sensibilities, the fashion, discretion, the carriage that charges fast the race 

Engraved, written, rhymed – the phrases wound by pretty sound and rounded form

. . .

writtenbyedenbray08.12.2019 

..

.. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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