Dragonfly (pages 26-27)

Continuing the serialization of my first poetry book Dragonfly. The next poem is another music poem, but this time jazz, not rock, on renowned gypsy guitarist Django Reinhardt. I'm tempted not to say 'nuff said . . . but 'nuff said. Hot Club de France Reprise on MTV —Django Reinhardt, 1910-1953 A rock video, and there you were. Only two good fingers on your left hand hammering note after rapid note from an old guitar, unheard beneath a rush of heavy metal. Was it Whitesnake? Def Leppard? The rock group's lead guitarist couldn't believe it. He stepped from his Ferrari into a fast-food sushi bar, opened chrome doors and found himself 50 years back in time: a Paris cafe, smoke, and you jammed against the beat. Winking at him, in your wide-brimmed, black floppy hat, you slipped out the side door and he followed. A will-of-the-wisp chase through cobbled streets, the lure of a velvet cloak. He finally caught up with you, passed out in some alley. And I wanted to shout, "No, that's not how it was." I wanted my son watching videos 2000 miles away to know the real Django. I wanted MTV to send a time machine to Saturday, February 23, 1935, the night Coleman Hawkins detonates Django and the Hot Club Quintet upon Paris. The joint jumping as the Hawk trades riffs on sax with Stephane Grappelli on violin. The videocam would focus on your hands, welding a solo from jive licks and magic octaves, swirling the air with chords in harmonic spirals. Dancers jitterbug while hepsters pat their feet. Page 26 I could call my son long-distance, tell him to watch for you on the tube: your fingers lit up by your crimson tie, like some artificial flower, like a blossom of flame blooming from a gypsy caravan. Page 27 The genesis of this poem has to do with my MFA mentor at Indiana University, Yusef Komunyakaa, who is renowned as a jazz poet, among other literary accomplishments. He was editing an anthology of jazz poems with my classmate Sascha Feinstein, and I wrote this poem in Yusef's poetry workshop class for possible inclusion in that book. The anthology eventually got published, with my poem included . . . here's a link to the book. Many thanks to Yusef and Sascha. The subject of the poem, Django Reinhardt, is one of the most well-known and most accomplished jazz guitarists ever — actually, one of the best guitarists, period, who ever lived. When Django was 18, he burned his hand in a fire and badly burned the ring and little fingers on his fretting hand (along with other bodily injuries). When he recovered, he developed a guitar style using primarily his index and middle fingers for melody and solos, with the damaged fingers used only for chords. Django became world renowned for this remarkable finger style. Here's a video of Django performing with his band the Hot Club de France Quintet. Regarding the narrative at the start of the poem, I had seen a video on MTV that featured a character clearly based on Django, very much as I described, though I fictionalized some of the details. I have looked for that video over and over but have never been able to find it again. If someone knows about that video, please leave me a comment below. The video was not of Whitesnake or Def Leppard, as the poem surmises. I wonder sometimes if I merely dreamed that video! As always, I'd love to get some feedback or discuss anything with all y'all. Comment, okay? Thanks. Ingat. DRAGONFLY FIRST CONTENTS PREVIOUS NEXT LAST