Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue # 61                        Page 1
                                   
                     G. M. FOSTER (d. 2008) 3 POEMS
  Greg Foster was an old friend of mine since the 60s. We co-founded the Moorish Science Monitor and belonged to the Moorish Orthodox Church. Greg read his poetry to jazz (incl. Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers). A decade ago he married a Greek (Athena) and moved to the island oflkaria (where Icarus fell to earth). He died in May '08, shortly after publishing Renditions, which I reviewed in the last issue of HPN. -P. L Wilson

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BREMSER BREAKS JAIL

Bremser in Bordentown lockup
writing Drive Suite
Buhaina in his head
teasing the snare and
skinning the ride cymbal
At Monty Montgomery's
interzone studio
washing down peyote buttons
with tequila "Hey Ray
remember Rita the rose poet of Philadelphia?"
(She was my first wild
passion--and how we cut
each other's hearts
in slices)

Says Ray
a toothless grin flashes
pink gums
puckering under his whiskers
"Did ya fuck her
* in that troll house of her ma's
with the old man nested
in the attic like a bat
and grandma snatching a grab
at her long loose locks?"

WHAM rappadoom jing-jing
I sure did Ray
we made the two-backed beast
up and down the stairs
and in the hall
from rug to roof

Ray sees Egypt
on the East River and
Ecbataba
in Jersey City

Back in State Prison
tilted on his metal bed

digging Monk KLONG
Coltrane WHEEDUP WOE UH-OH
Ornette SKROOBA BRATTLE ATL ZOOGAH
remembering childhood
dreams of his sister's breasts
and dank green hallways
that reeked of drains
and rats and dogs
("Suffering grants no rights"--
you were born knowing that)

or blitzed in the parkor blitzed in the park
playing phenomenoes
and goofing on the whole mad scene

or reading in the stuffed church--
we were all cold and wet
from tramping crosstown
through the pluviation--
and you took out your jailhouse teeth
to get those plosives
in placebos plus
and some square asks
"Are you high
Mr. Bremser?"
"Yes, my friend, I am--
and I intend
to stay that way."

Those burning poems for Bonnie
"Poetry saved me, and
god gave me Bonnie" ________________________________


Emphysema got you
and you huffed your last riff
but I remember
Blues for Harold,
Blues for an Old Shirt,
Back on Black Blues
Drive Suite,
Frankenstein

Ray--
the poet who swings
Nellie Lutcher into the poem
is all right
with me
________________________________
KOSTAS KOUVIDIS
[Greek jazz drummer in the Andreas Thermos
Quartet, died in a tragic accident in the spring of 2007]


I did not know him
we traded not words
but glimpses and grunts
as he spoke through his skin

his punctuation
was all stops
split pauses dashes
semi colons ellipses and elisions
apostrophes
commas and questions
exclamations brief and rare

his brushwork was precise and clean
taut as a whisper in a thicket
light as a cats moustache

glancing glinting cymbals
highlights on the shimmering surface
of music

rolls and shuffles
rimsnaps drumthumps
sang support
living volumes of space
for bass to build his columns in
piano his arches
open doors for tenor to pass through

his accidental absence
dyes the silence
another color

___________________________________

OUR FRIENDS

a wave rises and takes a step
before falling flat on its face
pulled by the heels    it's dragged
back where it came from

the sea is rubbed by the skin
of bare boys and girls who thresh
the air with cries and barks of laughter
their summery curves sprawl in the sun

dusk is saffron    salmon    and bronze
night rises with a slow restless turn
stridulation of the motorbikes begins
and cyclopean lights crawl the mountain roads

autumn stars advance out of blackness
and the risen Pleiades announce the danger season
when we harvest the black fruit    when the dead
our friends    speak in their sleep    and ours
Weight

Weight
Only starting point possible
for a poem
that's to be
on Sam Exler--
one of the so-called Great Generation;
one of those slog-through Gl's
who came home to McCarthyism
(he was a bespectacled Jew, & earner of
many medals).
A witness to darkness,
he was a survivor:
a funny and patient man;
a serious, triumphant poet.

Ok. Enough about Sam.

I want to examine
where I am.

Sam would understand.


          Donald Lev ____________________________