THE BLACKENED BLUES, One Poem at a Time: Charlie Parker's Premonition

I’m happy to announce that my first poetry collection, The Blackened Blues, is available wherever you buy books (yes, *wherever*, so you don’t have to put more money in Rocket Man’s pocket; you can go directly to my publisher, Finishing Line Press, or support my pals (and 1455 partners) at D.C.’s The Potter’s House).

THE BLACKENED BLUES is part of a large and ongoing project that discusses (and celebrates) some of the author’s personal heroes who remain far less celebrated than they deserve to be. As it happens, many of them are musicians, hampered in various ways by discrimination, ranging from old fashioned racism to institutional and cultural indifference. Though there’s an elegiac sadness suffusing these poems, there’s also acknowledgment of defiant genius: they fought their battles bravely, in their art and in their lives. This collection seeks to capture something (or, hopefully, more than a few things) essential about their lives, bearing witness while also paying homage.

I’d like to introduce the collection, one poem at a time (in the order they appear in the book), and tell a little bit about the inspiration for each, by way of explanation and in tribute.

Next up is “Charlie Parker’s Premonition” (gratitude to Five:2:One Journal for publishing this one in 2017).

Charlie Parker’s Premonition

At least Bach believed in God—this is what saved him.
Can you fathom that freedom, the peace of such certainty?
In thrall to exigency, at once owned yet refusing ownership
of one’s art. Accepting endowments that, on blessed occasions,
override routine; on hallowed days clamor for consummation
in a voice you alone are capable of divining, or better still,
chosen to channel: a commission you neither oppose nor suppress.

Sadly for the faithless, God’s accessible only through transcription,
and often selects vessels not spiritually suited for the exchange.
How would you handle the hot urgency of some holy inspiration
if it awoke inside your mind, screaming like a starved exile?
Could you mitigate earthly debt in the sacred currency of psalms?
Or would you require synthetic unction to abide the consecration
of a million illimitable miracles—even if you scoff at such stuff?