His parents owned a tavern and were not very well off. It's the birthday of Giuseppe Verdi, born in a village in Parma, Italy (1813). Not quiet-look, can't you see the sky will soonĬollapse and we must keep dancing till it cracks? Not polite, the notes themselves were sneak attacks Not scared, the only road lay straight in front Not timid, why open your mouth if not to shout? No streets, we bushwhacked through the underbrush I felt he'd been blueprint, map and education: The discordance and fretful change of beat,Īs in Straight No Chaser, where he hammers togetherĪ papier-mâché skyscraper, then pops seagulls That hearing him, I grabbed my pack and soldieredįorward. To his fingertips as he careened through the tune,Ĭounting unlike any metronome. It seemed that Monk played with sticks attached Mann depressed me, Freud depressed me more. Tinted the stacks of unread books: if Thomas Had a blue bulb which I thought artistic and Way out, the next note was never the noteĮighteen and between my present and futureĪnd listen to Monk twist the scale into kinksĪnd curlicues. The musical phrase and seemed to find a new In college and played the record in my room Poem: "Theolonious Monk," by Stephen Dobyns, from Common Carnage (Penguin).
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