Welcome to Yoby Henthorn

Tonight I'd like to post some poems from Yoby Henthorn's volume When Icarus Falls, a work in progress about the poet's bipolar disorder.  These poems are the first published from the series.

Anhedonia is a term meaning "a psychological condition characterized by inability to experience pleasure in normally pleasurable acts" (Merriam-Webster Dictionary).

Anhedonia

I stare at the leggy, late summer geranium

 blooms bob in midair

Grass as green  

As In late summer rain is grey.

I don’t wish for fall

For bright gold birches

Against

Skinny, black spruce

I wish for the Browns, grays against

 Thin blacks

Of spruce

Before the first snow

Makes them beautiful.

I don’t wish for soft, deep snow

Falling down,

Muffling sound

I wish for a bench

In a stubbled hay field

Sharp, whistling wind

Blowing snow grit sideways

Scouring my face

As it blows clean

The fields

From Kansas to New Mexico

------------------------------------------------------------------

Persephone’s House

My house is piles, mazes, dust , and string

Heavy grease of fried fish, thin chicken blood, and stale water

Pool, bead and glisten on the kitchen surfaces

My house smells

Like nickel,

Like copper,

Like pig- iron,

 Like salt.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Missing Diana

She’s hunting tornados.

Books , magazines and craft kits

 Avalanche off the table.

We kick them out of our way.

She didn’t buy groceries before she left.

She hasn’t bought groceries in months,

But has left a large, half- finished Victorian gingerbread house, with its half-finished furniture.

Hulking on the kitchen counter surrounded by bowls of royal icing hardened to ceramic.

When we are bored , we flick pastel candy shingles off the roof

When hungry, we break off a piece of wall and run it under water so we don’t break our teeth.

We toss the dog a chair, or a sofa.

Yarn from unfinished afghans snakes around our feet.

We shuffle slowly to some corner, chair leg, lamp base,

Placing the yarn carefully

Firmly,

Tightly,

Weaving a web.

Tornadoes will end come winter.

She will come home.

We’ll snare her.

Make her tell stories for a thousand and one nights

About the nine billion names of God.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Diana

Heat waves shimmer from the asphalt road too soon after a cold cloud of depression lifts.

This is what I live for.

Thunderstorms building up, up up.

Lightning storms sizzling my brain.

Hail

Softball size

Yes!

Falling, cracking, breaking, breaking

Silence

Green Sky

Spinning sick

Nosferatu’s fingers reaching down, down, down

I bite the wrist and ride.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cerberus

The chow’s fur

Millions of thin beading needles

He brushes  against me,

Never leaves my side.

Thousands of needles

I pull out every day

And place in a bronze bowl on my nightstand.

He corals me into the bedroom

Corals me onto my bed, yet won’t let me sleep.

As soon as I doze, he growls and jumps on me,

Lies upon me

The needles pierce me no matter how many blankets I use.

I sit up again and pull the needles

Out of me

Out of the blankets,

Out of my shoes.

Small dry plinks as I drop them into the bowl.

He will let me go to the toilet,

But not the shower,

Not anyplace he can’t be with me.

He’s allergic to water.

I wet a towel corner anyway

Wipe my face, my underarms, my groin

Knowing I still smell sour

He’s brushed against the towel

So I let it drop

Knowing it smells sour anyway

Knowing it is too full of needles

Knowing I can splash myself with water

And splash him at the same time

Every once in awhile, he lets me eat,

But only because he is hungry too.

A piece of cheese for me, a piece for him

A tablespoon of peanut  butter for me

A tablespoon for him

My face is as thin as a knife.

My teeth rattle in my gums

His shoulder blades and hips poke through his fur.

He is losing thousands of needles a day.

I wonder which of us will die first.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ben Williams' "Things Don't Exist" is a good song to start with: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XHVHS8uDJU

Here is his "Lost and Found" with Christian Scott: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmG2oPaHpwk

"Black Villain Music" fits well, too: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJmu2i0-TUo

I'll finish with his version of "Moontrane": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gq_rpYcAVpw

A Tribute to Felino A. Soriano

Recently Heath Brougher, the poetry editor of Five2One Magazine, gave me the idea to set up a tribute to Felino A. Soriano, a dynamic and prolific jazz-inspired poet.  You've seen a fair number of his poems at this blog-zine.  Tonight I thought I'd bring them together for this tribute, starting with "Of This Momentum Song (Forty-two)," a piece written especially for The Song Is and nominated for the 2015/6 Best of the Net.

Of this Momentum Song (forty-two)

                           _______________

                           Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there.

                             —Miles Davis                       

    To be near ________,

      is what

   here needs it

      to be, an unnamed

    name is only

       ________ when

                  the

mouth closes, excavating

  rhythm in all

 language, when

   then here is again

 and why we ________

  is

   answered atop

 a silence of small

    stone: the flecks

  within the reflect

     hold the hand

   of what watches,

       how or when

                  the

 breath of our going,

  _________.  We come

to drink of/from.  The

   promise held to

 how we name the

    unnamed.  Paused

  intuition, we’ve a

     nuance in our

 motivated ________,

                 a

  freeing fathom can

 reinvent the mouth.

______________________

   Tongue: blurred wing

  song of clapping

     hands.  Hands:

                 speaking

  bilingual caliber, ________

   what we need

to invent, unaltered.

    Organized, we hour by

   the sound of it, sound-

     ing out to open

                   doors

   in incremental minutes.

  Certain these angles

    plagiarize shape,

                   _______

 is familiar,

      

       is

  known then replaced

 into what finds

           a self-outside

   the self, privileged,

                                 ________

Since this will be a long entry, I am going to post one song after each poem or set of poems.  Here is Miles Davis' "In a Silent Way/It's About That Time":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E9X7XmigDxw  Interestingly, you don't hear Miles' trumpet until about four minutes in.

-------------------------------------

"Underneath," a tribute to Vijay Iyer, was nominated for the 2014/5 Best of Net.  It is also part of Felino's Forms migrating series.  

Underneath

I want to live, experiment with focuses, rearrange fragmentations.

Create alternate apparitions, converse across patterned puddles

attempting silent art into an acclimation of open structure.  I’d

live then, if each year didn’t curtail with predetermined fallacies of

bruised resolutions.  I listen, then; the perfect option among voices

hitching and holding onto stories delving, if by thrown, and the sequencing

of truth singing and louder, singing into the dark halls of my eyes’ misplaced

confidence.

Vijay Iyer also inspired "Morning, this," a poem where you see Felino's love for his daughter.

Morning, this

Swing diagram

daughter’s

arcing

deliberate grin.  Her

visual cue said

the crow never

rose higher than the 2^nd

version of a moment’s

agonizing realization.

Toward verb my listening

altered.  Running.  Impulse

common her

                             intuition to inspire with voice modulations, concise diction

                             appropriate in the melody of a father’s roaming gather.  Here

                             we speak as do feathers’ neighboring conjoining—aligned or

                             halved in idea and function of purpose. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am choosing this performance of the Vijay Iyer Sextet as Felino had told me that it was the inspiration for "Morning, this":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2wBwIRMjuUY

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Felino has paid tribute to a number of different musicians, often drawing attention to lesser-known contemporary men and women as well as highlighting the classic figures.  The first poem I received from him was "toward smile and its fundamental creation/for Takuya Kuroda."  Blue Note Records describes Kuroda as a "forward-thinking musician with a bent towards mixing post-bop and adventurous soul jazz."  I would also call Felino a forward-thinking poet with a bent towards mixing jazz and adventurous poetry.

toward smile and its fundamental creation

                                                                   —for Takuya Kuroda

of this listening

and the burgeon of sound

syncopates among

dexterous fascinations amid

these wings and oscillating breathing hands

           their

soliloquies demonstrate preferences of

solitude, silence, danceable articulations

against mirror and/or varied languages

and

                     styles of brass-blown rhythms

linking into a bouquet’s center

the scent strong and elongated

                                                           and

with gift

a

sound

sings

sways and

converts hope

into an augmented elation of

tonal

                         interpretation

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is Takuya Kuroda's "Rising Son" from the album of the same name:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mUymaxWmMw

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next poem "introverted dance and its electronic configurations/for Kris Bowers" draws our attention to another emerging musician.

introverted dance and its electronic configurations

                                                                   —for Kris Bowers

this hall

which leads

lends

a talkative brand of paralleling

visceral exhalations

etched

into each

rolled species of extracting

syllables’ reinforced multiple meanings,

gained and by gathering what leaps from

a spiraling direction of blue/green/gold

led kaleidoscopic configurations

this hall

slim though populated

into pageantries of embracing

eclectic embraces—

never sends silence or

its synonym for chaotic

aggregations

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kris Bowers gave a TED talk...or shall I say a TED performance in Harlem:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NDbcR0ud3mU

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next set of poems that Felino sent me included one honoring the innovative pianist Robert Glasper.

in this piano-glare fade from

                                                 —for Robert Glasper

&, or of sound speaking spark

from charisma’s fingering spectrum

chorded oranges

greens                     turquoise blearing refuge

amid the dragonfly’s

                    hovering smear spins into webbed pattern

above

an eye’s version of watching while closed

                                       see: the life of this momentary balance,

of tone & space                                    leaping

lending

                                                            by which loiter explains wait as

gift of hearing this nuanced

origami

                   clean

confessing

                                                                             configured in the approbation

of legacy and brilliant’s articulating

hanker

Glasper also appears in the poem that opened my Thelonious Monk contest.

Trio of incorporated interpretations

i.

                   —after Thelonious Monk’s Thelonious

Altered extraordinary focal premises

these plurals arise arrive

dominating left-right hand-hand plurals and pulsing

pushes . . .                               what/who hears

this

cannot not become altruistic in subsequent

serenades toward emblems of your rise and open

-hand needs

                              . . . solo which rises      thrown

such jubilant architectures of oscillating feet

          feeling freed and

forthcoming more so freedom amid the standing

ovation each hand surprises as the wife beyond

¹⁴th circulation of the 2^nd volume of each year’s orchestrated

patterns

ii.

                   —after Robert Glasper’s Thelonious

why (,or, inside the permission of tongues speaking _________,)

the eyewear fits, well, finds, well

and well, this rhythm sits, well, well, aligning

beyond juxtaposed

already in the expectation of

left-aligned memories

pulling what crowds with softened unclosed

fingering selections, the watchers impress their

aptitude inspire their prior silence into

what knowing retains in replayed

motions of what assembles

                                                 intuitively

iii.

                   —after Jason Moran’s Thelonious

 as to my father’s waving hand i

‘ve become a somewhat similar he when i

range my talk and arrange my walk with head

or visual tools held toward the right-hand lean

my fedora wears itself, as my

graying ceiling

since youngster style into the middle-portion of

my existence’s mirror and wandering finding

i am interpreting, yes

, what has held in place an examination

prior to my altering infatuation with

musical foundation and language as

advocate of my body’s often-bending

notions

to become what expands within

the generational differences of

same-season reaching

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is an extended version of Robert Glasper's "Thelonious" with Mos Def:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIo6UakaFVY

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christian Scott (whom you may know as Christian aTunde Adjuah) is the inspiration for the next poem:

inflection rally my speech encompasses junction

                                                —for Christian Scott

persuasion,

see,                       bouquet confirmations

left to the hand

framed by the smile

scent carries into twirl

around the head in halo

remedy

                                                                    spatial syllables

an escape proximity to/at

where a freedom commends

diligence

in

what wears its natural gold or

glare toward a nascent tomorrow enunciation

expressed against relevance of another’s role as typical

& what extrapolates

they’ve an aim-off agenda

& my unbroken lean

contours

                    containing prose or the ambulation of

these words’

contagious                                kaleidoscopic spirit

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To accompany this poem, I've posted Christian aTunde Adjuah's "West of the West":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LJDCpoKFDCo

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As I mentioned above, Felino has also celebrated the work of more established musicians.  One is Charlie Haden, the double-bassist and leader of the Liberation Music Orchestra.

vibratory nuances in the celebrated fathoms of music

 —for Charlie Haden

worded braids

bonded water writing letters into assailable eyes—

all aspects of a life’s inward collaboration

with joy & voice

of song & responsibility

to beauty & hand

either / or stone

both or other tools design space as architecture,

body & becoming as

range & serial movement

&

with invitation

these fingering splays & purposeful designations

respell elation

from a silent theory

toward screams of physical alterations

the need to define this moment’s

clarity

answering through haze & form of fogged

interpretations,

sound oh, sound

which whisper first

exposes the forehead

to lean and prosper

walking into halls of

nuanced & radial

associations?

—then, & when

the answer rises from the tongue of sole communication

the body

might/must bend

contoured into the map of directional

believability

-----------------------------------------------------

Charlie Haden and Keith Jarrett's version of "For All We Know" is perfect for this late night with the windows open: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Sf9P8asRHQ

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another is Marian McPartland, the longtime NPR host.

Each crow suspends prior to dedicating movement

          —for Marian McPartland (born 3/20/18)

                                               

personal geography

the dance of the body’s turning

                                                toward

an age of trend     an arc of proving rhythms—

near-morning, the

mist of air’s whispering welcome

nothing here hallucinates under the

fingering tributes of wing and plurals of

reconfiguring devotion—

a prose writes

its wandering purpose

into gaze and promise to etch meaning from absence

and within the voice a

curtain of horizontal hands

pause and continue . . .                                             a bowing of

internal reliance with

SUDDEN symmetry :: each rounded sounding

pound of memorizing measure, the associated

figurines of air’s crisscrossing angular levels

paralleling music with the flight of handmade veneration—

the tribute will arrive again, ongoing

mentioning toward the hearers of tonal

                                                             camaraderie

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is her version of "There Will Never Be Another You":
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mgmy9t6Qlac

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Enjoy this tribute to Poncho Sanchez!

Oh, the joy

                —after Poncho Sanchez’s Baila mi gente

we this aggregation of

fluid wings this

                        articulation of rhythm’s

                        mobile language and prosaic

              function

            to

reinterpret movement

                                           we’ve been an attribute of tonal miracles

and

 the feet of our listening

erupt and configure

elation’s

                   pronounced figurines of multilingual

excavations 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the song that Felino references in the soaring poem above:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mCx28bKwIk

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I especially appreciate "Listening," one of the poems in the Summer 2015 contest of poems inspired by female musicians.  The musician honored here is pianist Geri Allen.

Listening

—after Geri Allen’s Soul Eyes

each gate     wanders, opens          widens,

reopens

an interpretation     of a window’s
signature of contouring syllables
shaped by hands of popular
association, —a connected dedication
opens the visual hanker to
align purpose with the prose
of companionship’s configuration,     each
smile of an onlooker holds an embraceable
moment, an emblem stays, hovering
above what portends color to confirm
emotional clarification, and the eyes
will remember each chapter, each
page will ignite imagination’s pageantry,
consecrated contemplation

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I know you want to listen to "Soul Eyes": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFKpxFqqAqs
---------------------------------------------------------
I'm going to close with a statement of poetics that Felino sent me and that I published with his poems on Robert Glasper and Christian Scott.

Summation of poetics:

My writing stems from the perspective of positing a poetic language of immanent discovery.  Often, the burden of everyday language—one offering a sameness and lack of creative spontaneity—creates spectral desensitization toward environment and the paradigms of interrogating what expands into beautiful presentations.  I am first, an interpreter of what surrounds me; music is foundational, and the found rhythms inspire and dictate each poem’s identity and spatial configuration.  I am interested in language as longevity, in advocating for its limitless disposition toward revealing, —and in this revealing, I aim to uncover/unconceal angles of what is unseen, the belly of a stone’s cool and undisturbed silence.

Jazz works its way into my language, —through rhythm and interpretation, its spontaneous and improvisational qualities augments my desire to create a text that behaves from the perspective of unaltered fruition.  

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wish Felino all the best and thank him for his past & future contributions to The Song Is... and, more importantly, poetry itself.  I don't know how he does all that he does!