Digging Duke’s Suite at Newport

 By Rudolph Lewis

in our solitude 

there are holy circles—our songs  & tales

humor & hoodoo—they haunt us

We sit & stare wars everywhere 

knowing the world will soon go mad

We pray to our Great Composer

to send his Spirit back to us 

in our solitude

Blues sweet & hot

west end rhythms, timeless

shuh  wop, shuh  wop—shuh wop 

with burnt-faced dancers, flying—sweating

Spirituals flooding memories that never die  

like stewed chicken feet, steaming

We tunneling—boring up from dark wombs     

we keep on jamming, jamming

in our solitude

Satin dolls—loose & light, sparkling

indigo before sunrise

media flashing, angling, cameras slashing

We dreaming outstretch arms

as some escape on Duke's A-Train

Superstars smacking veins—soul-wrecked 

bloodthirsty as stalin & sudan

drained of sacred dramas

We toss ashes upon righteous ground

Miles & Mahalia clapping marching

like faithful soldiers dying with the Lord

Down with our ancestors, Duke swings on

in “Diminuendo & Crescendo in Blue” — 

Paul Gonzalves' saxblowing . . . screaming screaming

We clapping stamping dust rising

in our solitude

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 posted 3 July 2004