Then years uncurled him, thinned him hard.
Now, far he cast his line into the wrinkled blue
And easy toes a rock, reel on his thigh
Till bone and crank cry out the strike
He takes with manchild chuckles, cunning
In his play of zigzag line and plunging silver.

Emmett Till *

© James A. Emanuel

* In 1955, Till, a fourteen-year-old from Chicago, for
allegedly whistling at a white woman in Mississippi, was murdered
by white men who tied a gin mill fan around his neck and threw his
body into the Tallahatchie River.

Bojangles And Jo

© James A. Emanuel

Stairstep music: ups,
downs, Bill Robinson smiling,
jazzdancing the rounds.

« I'm A Jazz Singer, » She Replied

© James A. Emanuel

He dug what she said:
bright jellies, smooth marmalade
spread on warm brown bread.

Greens

© James A. Emanuel

Lid's on, steam's risin':
collard greens, Lord, bubblin' JAZZ!
That's appetizin'.

Michael Jackson

© James A. Emanuel

There ain't NO-BO-DY
can dance like THAT, 'cept them twins
Jazzlene and Jazzphat.

For A Depressed Woman

© James A. Emanuel

I
My friends do not know.
But what could my friends not know?
About what? What friends?

Four-Letter Word

© James A. Emanuel

Four-letter word JAZZ:
naughty, sexy, cerebral,
but solarplexy.

Syringa

© John Ashbery

Orpheus liked the glad personal quality
Of the things beneath the sky. Of course, Eurydice was a part
Of this. Then one day, everything changed. He rends
Rocks into fissures with lament. Gullies, hummocks

Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror

© John Ashbery

As Parmigianino did it, the right hand
Bigger than the head, thrust at the viewer
And swerving easily away, as though to protect
What it advertises. A few leaded panes, old beams,

My Philosophy of Life

© John Ashbery

Just when I thought there wasn't room enough
for another thought in my head, I had this great idea--
call it a philosophy of life, if you will.Briefly,
it involved living the way philosophers live,
according to a set of principles. OK, but which ones?

Just Walking Around

© John Ashbery

What name do I have for you?
Certainly there is not name for you
In the sense that the stars have names
That somehow fit them. Just walking around,

Into the Dusk-Charged Air

© John Ashbery

Birds circle the Ticino. In winter
The Var was dark blue, unfrozen. The
Thwaite, cold, is choked with sandy ice;
The Ardèche glistens feebly through the freezing rain.

Glazunoviana

© John Ashbery

The bear
Drops dead in sight of the window.
Lovely tribes have just moved to the north.
In the flickering evening the martins grow denser.
Rivers of wings surround us and vast tribulation.