"cornet" poems
IT'S a jazz affair, drum crashes and cornet razzes
The trombone pony neighs and the tuba ******* snorts.
The banjo tickles and titters too awful.
The chippies talk about the funnies in the papers.
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
Ship riveters talk with their feet
To the feet of floozies under the tables.
A quartet of white hopes mourn with interspersed snickers:
"I got the blues.
I got the blues.
I got the blues."
And ... as we said earlier:
The cartoonists weep in their beer.
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It was a restless night denuded of sleep
So since it was warm and windless
I hit the streets
Walking under ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss
My path inevitably led to where
Everything was at a complete loss
Crescent Moon Memorial Cemetery
For the dead
Where all lie below earthly care
Was where my feet had somehow led
Row upon row of forgotten names
In all of their endeavors
Have been eased of their earthly pains
And now as I trudged by at a quarter to three
A low chorus and chords of music
Through the mists came floating to me
It startled and intrigued
What now is this ?
So I had to go see for myself
And I silently crept to where came the origins of bliss
In a circle of bench seats and monument stones
The strangest thing I saw , that of the unborn
Ghosts and skeletons playing with bones and singing in moans
A see through piano , trombone , bass , saxophone and a silver cornet
And one wailing guitar completed the set
On the translucent petal bass drum
Was the name of the ethereal band
And to a catchy tune I began to hum
Crescent Moon Memorial Buried Blues Band
The epitaph on the vaporous drum stated
And I soon found myself a loyal fan
What seem like a lifetime they continued to play
Quaint rthyms and lyrics now made my day . . . and night !
As the sounds drifted across the river out onto the bay
But far off I heard the mornings cock's call
Then phiff . . . vanished all into the fog
Not a trace as if covered by an invisible pall
And then a ray caught the gleam in my eye
And I knew that when the time comes
Here's where I want to be placed after I die
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
THE SAXOPHONE STORY
BY RAJ NANDY
The Saxophone is perhaps the most expressive
instrument next to the human voice.
Was made by Adolphe Sax, a Belgian, through
a deliberate choice!
He wanted to offset the tonal disparity, -
Between the string, wind, and brass instruments,
with musical clarity !
He felt that the strings ones were overpowered
by the wind instruments.
While the wind instruments got overblown by
the brass ones instead !
Now what would happen if the best qualities
of these three instruments types,
Could in a fusion blend and coalesces into a single
instrument type ?
So finally at the age of 20 years, in March Eighteen
Hundred and Thirty Four,
Adolphe Sax created a magical instrument for the
World to hear and adore!
It had the power of the brass, the flexibility of the
strings, and the woodwind’s variety and tone;
Which got christened after Adolphe Sax as the
SAXOPHONE !
Adolphe’s famous composer friend Hector Berlioz
in Paris City,
Gave this new instrument wide publicity!
In 1844 the Sax was presented in the Industrial
Exhibition at Paris;
And subsequently got patented on 20 March 1846.
It soon got adopted by the Bands of the French Army.
Making other instrument makers to become green
with envy!
The Sax was 80 years old when it became part of the
musical instruments of the Jazz Band.
A small bore mouth piece was created to suite the
varying tonal qualities required by Jazz.
Initially, 14 different sizes of Sax was created by
Adolphe.
Today only five types are in use for us to hear and
see;
The Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass and the Baritone
Saxophone.
They now form a part of our Jazz music's backbone!
- By Raj Nandy
FOOT NOTES :
Adolphe Sax (1814-1894) , son of famous musical instrument maker
Charles Joseph Sax of Belgium. Woodwind Instruments = Flute, Clarinet, Bassoon etc. Brass Instruments = Trumpet, Tuba, Cornet etc. String Instruments = Violin, Guitar, Harp, Banjo etc. The Saxophone today has become the very backbone of Jazz Music!
** ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY: - RAJ NANDY **
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
I have a confession to make, I said. I drink to forget all
That my failings and foibles beget. Sobriety
Sends me to most fitful sleep. No rest for he who in his unwaking hours
Mulls over the wine of his life, which he sours
With his own cork of guilt and self-conscience. All mine self-confidence
Derives from Contradictions repressing. Catatonic sleep of great notoriety
Is my limbo, my heaven, perchance my sick death. The
Removal of a blot on the face of this land should solicit, I fear, cornet
Mouthed angels to sound clarion of victory. If I was religious
I should become a flagellant invigilate most excellent
Flayed as the poacher would the pheasant.
And the landowner would the poacher.
Silence from both. I take a drought from my drink, she a small sip.
She looks at me and I look a way.
Do you want me to pay for this? She asks. Just the tip
Quoth I. Another drought and a sip.
Another.
I break down. I have nothing to believe in,
To believe in foul dogma to wash my soul of sin
I find repugnant. Belief in Progress and people and
The wonder of Nature is akin to praying to the inconstant sand
Castle made by the hand of a passing child.
Belief in my girlfriend! More my love’s greatest failure
To grant her the care and affection she deserves
Due to my sand castle of pride in which I do serve.
And thus do I say, to purge all my lust
There’s only one way, in Self-disgust I trust.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
BAND concert public square Nebraska city. Flowing and circling dresses, summer-white dresses. Faces, flesh tints flung like sprays of cherry blossoms. And gigglers, God knows, gigglers, rivaling the pony whinnies of the Livery Stable Blues.
Cowboy rags and ****** rags. And boys driving sorrel horses hurl a cornfield laughter at the girls in dresses, summer-white dresses. Amid the cornet staccato and the tuba oompa, gigglers, God knows, gigglers daffy with life's razzle dazzle.
Slow good-night melodies and Home Sweet Home. And the snare drummer bookkeeper in a hardware store nods hello to the daughter of a railroad conductor-a giggler, God knows, a giggler-and the summer-white dresses filter fanwise out of the public square.
The crushed strawberries of ice cream soda places, the night wind in cottonwoods and willows, the lattice shadows of doorsteps and porches, these know more of the story.
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Ko Ko to Go Go
a prelude to a kiss
dance with Chubby Checker
lift a slo gin fizz
Head bobs to Be Bop
flip the B Side now
mellowtune in monotone
two ears for stereo wow!
Wonderment of Duke and Miles
swinging kool birthin boplicity
urban crush the hipsters rush
jazz joints cross the city
Firery sax emote a clash
strain ears of credulity
Lester leaps creative heat
nips harden on my *******
Max taps exotic wax
Django's quick pickin
finger snaps flip my lid
lips deliciously sippin
Eurozone a Zen zone
a blue infinitive smokin
big peeps dig don pink wigs
fat spliffs hot token
My new suede shoes
walks west end blues
Pop's cornet got me tippin
his open blast first to last
I like cornbread, barbecue
and fine home jazz cookin
jbm
Oakland
3/12/10
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 6:41 PM UTC
Thomas, Tommy baby,
you are both hot,
and sweet.
Tom Cat you’re red hot--
when I catch you in your Tom Cat Strut,
sauntering across campus,
strolling like it ain’t no thing,
cuz it don’t meant a thing
if it ain’t got that swing baby.
So dig this, Tommy Gun,
you groove with the best of ‘em
when I spot you strollin’—
Your head, teetering left and right like a seesaw, boppin’ baby,
arms hangin’ loosely, swinging freely, wildly, go! go!
legs scooping forward in boisterous trombone slides--
Groooooove Tommy baby!
You’re Louis’s best blows--
ten feet from the mic and the Fives baby,
you’re hot, red hot,
any closer and I'll burn up!
Go!
But you’re cool, real cool,
and oh so sweet.
Super sweet--
in your beard like a pepper and salt shaker tossed across the table,
I look to see those rosy lips part,
and peep those pearly whites shinin' like the bell of Louis’s cornet
brandished in the air, under those ballroom lights--
you’re screamin’ Tommy!
Let me hear that laugh that shakes the room,
punches like Blakey’s bass drum,
thumps like Mingus--
T-Bird you’ve got that hard bop in your soul,
you’re gonna bop to the top TB,
into the third heaven where the angels fall in line to your swing,
that incessant strut that keeps the devil at bay,
Blow! Blow! Blow!
And I see you now Tom Cat,
up there in the clouds,
digging your way across eternity,
bopping and jiving, swinging and blowing,
in your faded khaki pants and worn tennis shoes,
loosely buttoned collared shirt,
tight rectangular glasses that glistened the bell of your eyes even more--
I gotta stand twenty feet away Tommy baby!
You glance down at me and wink,
rearing your head back to let loose that Mingus and Blakey
bottom-end laugh,
guffaw guffaw guffaw!!!
--so hearty and rich,
the backbone of every nervous first-year classroom,
and the sniggering seniors you continued to befuddle and dazzle
with your mysterious ways
and insatiable swing.
So blow, Tommy Gun, blow!
Go Tom Cat go!
Dig T-Bird dig!
Let loose Tommy boy!
Swing for us, swing swing swing--
Hot and Sweet, Tommy baby,
hot and sweet.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
When she came out, that white little Russian dancer,
With her bright hair, and her eyes, so young, so young,
He suddenly lost his leader, and all the players,
And only heard an immortal music sung,--
Of dryads flashing in the green woods of April,
On cobwebs trembing over the deep, wet grass:
Fleeing their shadows with laughter, with hands uplifted,
Through the whirled sinister sun he saw them pass,--
Lovely immortals gone, yet existing somewhere,
Still somewhere laughing in woods of immortal green,
Young he had lived among fires, or dreamed of living,
Lovers in youth once seen, or dreamed he had seen. . .
And watched her knees flash up, and her young hands beckon,
And the hair that streamed behind, and the taunting eyes.
He felt this place dissolving in living darkness,
And through the darkness he felt his childhood rise.
Soft, and shining, and sweet, hands filled with petals. . .
And watching her dance, he was grateful to forget
The fiddlers, leaning and drawing their bows together,
And the tired fingers on the stops of his cornet.
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When she came out, that white little Russian dancer,
With her bright hair, and her eyes, so young, so young,
He suddenly lost his leader, and all the players,
And only heard an immortal music sung,-
Of dryads flashing in the green woods of April,
On cobwebs trembing over the deep, wet grass:
Fleeing their shadows with laughter, with hands uplifted,
Through the whirled sinister sun he saw them pass,-
Lovely immortals gone, yet existing somewhere,
Still somewhere laughing in woods of immortal green,
Young he had lived among fires, or dreamed of living,
Lovers in youth once seen, or dreamed he had seen. . .
And watched her knees flash up, and her young hands beckon,
And the hair that streamed behind, and the taunting eyes.
He felt this place dissolving in living darkness,
And through the darkness he felt his childhood rise.
Soft, and shining, and sweet, hands filled with petals. . .
And watching her dance, he was grateful to forget
The fiddlers, leaning and drawing their bows together,
And the tired fingers on the stops of his cornet.
1k
The noise of the seashore.
Screaming summertime children, drown out their decibels.
Those thieving flaming seagulls.
Still they hover over seaside dives.
Humming, squawking on the rob.
Fearless pirates steal from the unwary.
Not mysterious albatross or any sailor boys
These birds,they are true ancient mariners.
Sail not upon the sea, but bathe in harbour lights.
Flying on the warming drift.
Carried on sunshine.
Immense, scary birds.
Just to pinch a pasty.
Cornering a cornet, the eater hath no place to hide.
Tussled and tangled in flowing summer hair.
They want your pasty, you are their victims and they really do not care.
Fearless Herring gulls, not just after shining fish!
(C) Livvi
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
There it stands modelling a fine coat of dust
covering the rim chips that cheapen it.
This vase stood for more than I can understand.
In earthenware fashioned from English clay
by English hands, but unfashionable now
a small squat *** of Dalton blue and brown.
Two necklaces of tiny beads clasp its neck
like corsets holding open its cornet mouth.
But we no longer hear its tunes or read its runes.
When I hold it in my hands I see Great Grandma's room
with highland cattle in a Scottish mountain scene.
The long-case clock of fear and fascination
where mother was threatened with incarceration
but never ****** Its rustic case reached down
to Earth's grim brimstone and fiery domains.
'There,' Mother said, 'lie Grandma's tortured remains.'
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
Play along my sweet, sweet horn
For all the hearts are torn
Carry on a note so long
In your sad forgotten song
Now play along my sweet, sweet string
And let them hear you sing
Move your bows ever so gently
And watch them listen intently
Now play along my sweet sweet flute
And watch them all salute
Your lovely voice soft as rain
Deprives them of their pain
Now play along my sweet, sweet bell
For you always play so well
Show the world your soft tone
Because you’re all alone
Now play along my sweet, sweet bass
Just to give them a taste
Of your low mellow chord
And get them all on board
Now play along my sweet, sweet sax
But be mindful of those flats
Play it jazzy and so smooth
And take away the ruth
Now play along my sweet, sweet drum
And make the crowd go numb
You careful steady beat
Will lift them off their feet
Now play along my sweet, sweet chime
And freeze us all in time
The hollowness of your sound
Always in the background
Now play along my sweet trumpet
And match up with the cornet
Now join all the rest of you
And along to this merry tune
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
Someone is peeling the skin off the sky
the baked sun has begun its scratching.
I am hatching a plan to escape if I can
and to bathe in the sea
the scratching of skin never bothers me
if it's flaky and dry.
I want fins,want to swim to the end of all time
I need to find out what's there,what people would dare to reside
at the end of the tides,at the turn when times bides its time.
When the weather is fine and I'm feeling spot on
I feel I belong to the cosmos
because I melt into light where night never creeps through but with fins I could do
so much more.
I could bow and dip down to the ocean floor
I could knock on the door which Davy Jones locks
with a shock of blond hair waving here,waving there,I could meet up with Poseidon,try on a trident for size
I could open my eyes and could breathe underwater,could sort out the pearls from the shysters,those oysters that dive and make jewels out of grit where they sit and they filter.
I have built this dream from vanilla ice cream and am slowly licking it away
a cornet they say
plays a very nice tune
and Neptune agrees
as I float in the seas of the shore of no more and the sharks mill around as if they're knitting the sound of my death on their breath
which by the way stinks of fish.
My wish and I wish it comes true
is to sink into a heavenly bed
and to sink in it with you where the truth always lies
and the someone who peels all the skin off the skies
dies into the day
If I had my way
my wish would be your wishing too.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
A flawless piece of monument
Radiant like a sparkling white bonnet
She seized the shine for the moment
Soft girlie smile like Aja Monet
She got me filled with excitement
In the pen it's called heart magnet
The type that left you in astonishment
I got my hands sterilise in muse cabinet
So, I could put down a few statement
Maybe a line from my favourite sonnet
To melt her heart and end this segment
Together we'll reign, Lady and Baronet
If we come under attack, she'll be the cornet
I'll protect the flanks of our cavalry like hornet
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
~
along the golden sands she runs,
swinging arms, matching stride;
crashing waves bring seagull crumbs,
deposit treasures with each tide.
sea shells scattered on the sands,
like incantations on the wind;
she gathers them amidst the strands,
blending voice above the din!
each gusty wave of her baton,
the wind is maestro to this band;
from cockle’s flute the highest pitch,
to conch’s cello, deep & rich.
the tulip’s voice of brass cornet,
of scallop’s rippling clarinet;
the kettle drum of florida’s cone,
and hammered strings of angel’s wings!
instrumental simplicity,
ancient chords, rehearsed refrain;
her call to join each voice unique,
each grain of sand, each clapping wave,
leaping toward orchestral stage,
calling forth their joyous praise.
till mistral bows in whispered hush,
a thunderous crash, their glad applause!
~
maestro -
a distinguished musician, especially
a conductor of classical music.
mistral -
a strong, cold northwesterly wind
that blows into the Mediterranean.
~
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 10:11 PM UTC
Golda, do you remember the broken bridge of oak?
Lying o’er the river of the east; the broken bridge of oak
Golda, do you remember that Autumn sunset of red?
That sunset, I rested on that cold bed of ambers and red.
The sun was the brightest red of all light
The river kept flowing its gracious paths
From here, I saw your strands of red, fluttering with this zephyr; there
From here, I saw your nimble feet tapping grace, onto my heart; there
From here, I saw your vivid smile widening mine as this azure sky; there
As my cornet, that night, breathes the song of a thousand nights.
Your feet, that night, taps to my heart, a joy of a thousand sights.
As I dipped my feet onto this great river of the east,
I heard your feet lapping this great river of the east
As our feet were lapping this great river of the east.
I felt your fingers on my heart and… mine on yours.
This blue day, forty-five autumns and rains have come and gone by
From here, I see your strands of red, hidden in an ebony box; there
From here, I see your nimble feet, hidden in an ebony box; there
From here, I see your vivid smile, hidden in an ebony box; there
Golda, As you lay peacefully in that ebony box, alone, in that bed,
I shall lay like you lay, calm, on this hot stove of ambers and red
Till I meet you on the other side of our – broken bridge of oak.
Sep 29, 2020
Sep 29, 2020 at 8:43 AM UTC
I wanted ice cream so I asked for a cornet
they gave me a trumpet,
it's always like this
people just take the 'mick'
but I fooled them,
I started to lick
the trumpet.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 3:30 AM UTC
I put on
the Bix Beiderbecke LP
on the record player;
Tilly lay on my bed,
hands behind her head,
head on the pillow,
gazing at me,
blues eyes liquidy.
What's this?
She said.
Jazz, Bix was one
of the great cornet-players
back in the 1920s,
I said,
lying beside her,
snuggling up to
her soft *******
But this is 1965,
haven't you anything
more modern?
Beatles, Rolling Stones,
the Kinks?
Another time maybe,
I said,
smelling her new perfume,
underarm hair still there.
She listened,
touching my pecker,
stirring him into life
like some hibernating snake.
Bix blew others on the LP away,
high notes, silvery against
their dross of muddle mess,
a clarinet, a trombone.
Tilly gave a sensual moan.
I touched her thigh,
moved my hand across
to feel her soft thatch,
lips met and kissed,
and sealed and heated up.
Some antiquated singer
sang up front,
Bix in the background
making jazz.
No more talk,
no words about this or that,
no more utterances
of life and such,
we loved *** too much.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 2:33 AM UTC
Someone is peeling the skin off the sky
the baked sun has begun its scratching.
I am hatching a plan to escape if I can
and to bathe in the sea
the scratching of skin never bothers me
if it's flaky and dry.
I want fins,want to swim to the end of all time
I need to find out what's there,what people would dare to reside
at the end of the tides,at the turn when times bides its time.
When the weather is fine and I'm feeling spot on
I feel I belong to the cosmos
because I melt into light where night never creeps through but with fins I could do
so much more.
I could bow and dip down to the ocean floor
I could knock on the door which Davy Jones locks
with a shock of blond hair waving here,waving there,I could meet up with Poseidon,try on a trident for size
I could open my eyes and could breathe underwater,could sort out the pearls from the shysters,those oysters that dive and make jewels out of grit where they sit and they filter.
I have built this dream from vanilla ice cream and am slowly licking it away
a cornet they say
plays a very nice tune
and Neptune agrees
as I float in the seas of the shore of no more and the sharks mill around as if they're knitting the sound of my death on their breath
which by the way stinks of fish.
My wish and I wish it comes true
is to sink into a heavenly bed
and to sink in it with you where the truth always lies
and the someone who peels all the skin off the skies
dies into the day
If I had my way
my wish would be your wishing too.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Stop me and try one
but
the ice lolly man
pedals on.
I shout for a cornet,
he cannot hear me
where once he was near me
he's now far away.
No ice cream today then
and when will I get one if
the lolly pop man
won't stop?
Greensleeves and
ice lolly memories
I wonder if Shakespeare
were here would
they stop for him?
This is fantasy
a Central line
romance for me
nothing to do but watch
faces
expressions,
shoe laces
undone
stop me and tie one
hold on I might buy one
the tube rumbles on
in tune.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 1:52 AM UTC
You may all think Matthew is perhaps up all
night reading Das Capital for fun
& spending odd days in his chair
pondering class relations in
late 21st century Capitalism,
or just plain transfixed by newsreels,
earnest learned scholars,
smiling breezy interviewers,
fooled or entertained
by an opinion about
this, a diversion about
that,
& that Matthew sits hunched
over a computer screen
fuming at life's repugnancies,
odious & loathsome actors
in the Politics Game,
desperately berating liars,
despising sycophants, cursing
till the end of days the evil-doers,
ill-wishers, & apologists,
that Matthew in pure Bolshevik-
style takes no prisoners, accepts
no quarter, tidies up after the revolution
by filling shallow graves with the still
warm corpses of the enemies of the people,
well, actually you'd be on the right track
in some ways to be perfectly honest
but still ...
Matthew loves a good soccer game, caramel
ice cream, bananas, bacon sandwiches,
watching pelicans at the lake,
children playing,
old folks chilling ...
he's not really some kind of Iron Man of the
People all Medalled with the Order of
Proletariat First Class ...
fanatic, without humor, obsessed,
despairing & fuming & just plain
at his wits end,
he actually has faith & can take a step
back & curse the fool while enjoying
the wind upon his face,
Matthew loves the play but hates the
lead actors & in the Old English
tradition shouts out from the stalls
"Look out behind you!" as he takes
a lick from his sweet vanilla cornet.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
Once again I've been
paralyzed by
birdsong
a whisper of
a quiet
kingdom,
choir in place
of a cornet
We're back from
winter
and we want
everyone to
know it.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
seagulls with buckets and spades
crows wearing spats
Pigeons with shades
ravens with kiss me quick hats
and they're all flying off to the sun
when Thursday is done I'll be joining in the fun
a knotted kerchief to rest on my head
a deck chair and lotion
( by the ocean a lotion stops me getting red )
and She,
with a hairnet wanting a 99 cornet
knitting a sweater for Winter.
it must be nearly Friday.
Jun 30, 2022
Jun 30, 2022 at 12:04 AM UTC