WEBVTT

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Every time I read that
poem I see his face.

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And there's a sequel to
this, which is very personal

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and I want to share it with you.

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So I'd like to read
this, it's the last part

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of a poem I wrote for
my mother-in-law called

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"Roots Blues."

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And it's called "Here
Where Coltrane Is."

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"Soul and race are
private dominions,

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memories and modal songs,
a tenor blossoming,

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which would paint
suffering a clear color,

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but is not in this Victorian
house without oil, in zero

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degree weather and a
40 mile an hour wind.

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It is all a well knit
family, a love supreme.

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Oak leaves pile up
on walkway and steps,

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Catholic as apples in a special
mist of clear white children

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who love my children.

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I play Alabama on a
warped record player,

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skipping the scratches
on your faces

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over the fibrous
conical hairs of plastic

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under the wooden floors.

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Dreaming on a
train from New York

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to Philly you hand
out six notes,

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which become an anthem
to our memories of you.

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Oak, birch, maple,
apple, cocoa, rubber.

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For this reason, Martin is dead.

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For this reason,
Malcolm is dead.

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For this reason,
Coltrane is dead.

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In the eyes of my first
son are the browns

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of these men and their music."

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