Preachin’ to the Choir (for Joe, Linda, Tim…)

Raymond Nat Turner, BAR poet-in-residence

26 May 2021

2020’s hindsight—frost in the
rearview mirror. Miles Ahead…
I’m Sheltered in Solidarity with
National Poetry Month and
Jazz Appreciation Month—
April in Boston—warm cider
flows from the chat and screen…

And I answer a question with a
Question.
How much harm is in
Harmony?
And I state for the record:
“I’m tryin’, I’m Tranein’” to
Preach to the Choir—‘cause Now’s
The Time to Lift EVERY Voice!

I’m tryin’, I’m Tranein’ to
Preach to the Choir—
‘cause Now’s The Time to
Lift EVERY Voice—
surging songsters from shadows of gas-
lit churches; deploying battalions of freshly
Blended basses, baritones, tenors, altos,
sopranos—singing blues-tinged gutbucket gospels—
Mapping the heavens they must storm…

I’m tryin’, I’m Tranein’ to
Preach to the Choir—
‘cause Now’s The Time to
Lift EVERY Voice—
fishing for Working-Class-Indigenous-Afro-Asian-Euro-Latinx—
Anti-capitalist choristers—young/old; gay/straight; women/men—
ear-trained in harmony—rehearsed in roof-raising and feeding the
hungry, clothing the naked, healing the sick—freeing the land for
Free Health Clinics and Hospitals—every ‘hood in harm’s way…
I’m tryin’, I’m Tranein’ to
Preach to the choir—
‘cause Now’s The Time to
Lift EVERY Voice—
raising roofs on churches of a new type—state of the art
crimson-stained glass sanctuaries, showcasing new
Spirituals of unity and struggle of opposites; displaying
dazzling qualitative leaps—negations of the negated; show-
casing new singers; Discarding harmonically, melodically,
rhythmically weak, formulation-fractured songs, unsuitable
for the millions to sing and dance in Mayday marches in
Cities of size…Jettisoning ol’ songs still swearing that they’ll
Lead us 300 million to the Promised Land…

I’m tryin’, I’m Tranein’ to
Preach to the Choir—
‘cause Now’s The Time to
Lift EVERY Voice—
basking in Black Baptist echoes of “Amen!”
savoring soulful “Preach!” “Well!” “Sho you right!”
Responses to calls—Red Alerts—‘bout evil, ‘bout
war-criminal-profiteers and their unknown knowns—
And high priest assassin/torturers and their known
unknowns…
‘cause Now’s The Time to
Lift EVERY Voice—
chorale-ing choristers who can cooperate singing
themselves into good trouble, cleaning up oceans
and rivers; Singers singing solar panel-windmill
schemes; Staunch singers who ain’t about to let
Nobody turn ‘em ‘round—Turning over tables in
temples and throwing the money-changers out…

GQ Jeff Chambers

I first met him during Monkish locked
and loaded Cables-connected days of
Swinging severely in Bebop and Beyond.
In the line of duty
Donald ‘Duck’ Bailey
introduced me to “GQ Jeff Chambers…”

I dubbed him “GQ Jeff Chambers” ‘cause
every time he hit the stage he was ‘G’d-
up.’ Looking like he’d Walked off Nordstrom’s
rack through the Men’s Warehouse window!

Though flashy footnotes to sartorial statements
never made the stage—shoeless feet throbbed in
melodic rivers flowing beneath
Blanton, Brown bridges—bridging rhythm,
hooking harmony, rooted in his Pettiford
impregnated prayer rug; rooted in the
Ritual that enabled him lock it in the
pocket—and rock it…

His burgundy brown baby’s laying on
her side. Her slender neck beckons; F-
holes pointing south of the border to
Tijuana—PSA levels north of Hubbard
high Cs; Kidney function at the very
bottom of her range…

Another Mr. PC’s in town cutting African-
American bassists, saxophonists, painters,
dancers, photographers, postal workers,
bus drivers—ripping axes from their hands,
chasing them off stages
Twice as often as he chases Euros/‘white’ men
Another Mr. PC’s in town taking out African-
American men whose universal single-payer—
everyone on/no one off—medicare for all is:
Go Fund Me/Oasis of Hope in Tijuana, Mexico—
While $3.8 billion worth of hospital bombing,
doctor killing metastasizes every 2- 4 years…

poetry

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