Thursday, September 16, 2004


In response to Rebecca's prodding, here's a first, incomplete draft of something. We'll see where it goes.

controlled exhalation
connects me to a continuum
millennia of musicians pulsating
down a quantum river that flows
from measure one to some theoretical
double bar line at the end of the page

they swarm
           condensing into
           movement of lips and hands

as I draw inspiration
           their yellowed song
           my oxygen
they spiral from the horn
brought to life for a flash of ecstasy
                      nameless but beheld resurrection


paula said...

Hi Peter,

Eh, the musician in you is all here.

I love the poem from : they swam...

Wonder whether the beginning might be trimmed, something on these lines:

A continuum of musicians pulsating...

later, the poem becomes touchable music: love it.


Peter Garner said...

Hey Paula. Yeah, I'm definitely going to play around with that first bit, and surely it will get pruned. BTW, for you and anyone else who reads this, I'm wondering about "draw inspiration": does it work, or is it hackneyed--too obvious?


Eliot Prufrock said...

Hello Peter,

I do tend to agree with Paula, the first strophe could use some work. My reaction upon first read was, "whoa, way too clinical". It lacks the passion of the rest and with music, at least for me to enjoy it, the passion has to be there.

I do really like the aspect of a resurection, very apt.


Peter Garner said...


Good point, and I see what you mean. Resurrection good, zombies bad ;-))) Well, as I said, it's a first musing, posted mostly just to see what it looks like out of my head.


paula said...

Hi Peter,

yes, -draw inspiration- may be obvious; what about:
inhale their yellow song/ my oxygen?


Radish King said...

A poem in response to your poem:

Kit Kat Club

His sax is a Chinese puzzle
glazed in butter to crack and fry.
Reeds zisss, sting fingers, pinch
tongue, sizzle against skin
like Edith Piaf on amphetamines.

Big bottom girls cook,
tight pants slit up the side,
scat-bop-doowop sliding scale,
butter-tongued cats
plumped and creased in red capris,
toes squeezed in shoes
three sizes too small.

Sissy likes jazz, snaps her hips,
sax bends over Sissy’s heat
creamed in butter, thighs pressed tight.

Sissy, Sissy, take me home

Cat yelps from stage.
Sax swings gold with juice and lip,
howling, howling
honey on that gilded hook.

From Tarantella

Radish King said...

p.s. I hope you don't mind the crass link to my book. I'm trying my best to sell them. Apparently the masses aren't going to beat a track to my front door demanding their very own signed copies. r.

Peter Garner said...

Hey Rebecca,

Thanks for the preview. Very vivid writing, and it made me ponder why the sax is such a sexy instrument--I'm thinking because it appeals equally to both sexes, somehow managing to be both phallic and vaginate at the same time...

As for the link, I had already downloaded the flyer from your site. No need to appologize.


Aisha said...


I haev saoured your latest post, too busy/woozy too comment -- but it is a joy when musicians write on music.

I think it is the voice of the sax-- the hoarse, and yes, possibly in-between male/female: could be Tom Waits, could be -- who is a throaty female singer now...

Anyway -- this draft has a poem in it.


Peter Garner said...

Hi Aish,

You wouldn't recognize the latest incarnation. But unfortunately, my laptop stopped booting last Thursday and I'm worried I've lost it. I'm going to make some last ditch efforts to save the data on the disk this week. Otherwise, it's back to the drawing board Wish me luck!

RT (that'll teach me to hoard stuff and not post it on my blog)