Every time I read that poem I see his face.
And there's a sequel to this, which is very personal
and I want to share it with you.
So I'd like to read this, it's the last part
of a poem I wrote for my mother-in-law called
"Roots Blues."
And it's called "Here Where Coltrane Is."
"Soul and race are private dominions,
memories and modal songs, a tenor blossoming,
which would paint suffering a clear color,
but is not in this Victorian house without oil, in zero
degree weather and a 40 mile an hour wind.
It is all a well knit family, a love supreme.
Oak leaves pile up on walkway and steps,
Catholic as apples in a special mist of clear white children
who love my children.
I play Alabama on a warped record player,
skipping the scratches on your faces
over the fibrous conical hairs of plastic
under the wooden floors.
Dreaming on a train from New York
to Philly you hand out six notes,
which become an anthem to our memories of you.
Oak, birch, maple, apple, cocoa, rubber.
For this reason, Martin is dead.
For this reason, Malcolm is dead.
For this reason, Coltrane is dead.
In the eyes of my first son are the browns
of these men and their music."