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Sherman - Jogging with the Great Ray Charles

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Sherman Jogging with the Great Ray Charles
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    Jogging with the Great Ray Charles
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Jogging with the Great Ray Charles: summary, description and annotation

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A poetic masterclass from a writer at the height of his craftKenneth Shermans work has always displayed a vibrant lyricism, so its no surprise that his powerful new collection contains a number of poems with musical motifs. In such pieces as Clarinet, Transistor Sister, and the books titular poem, Sherman ponders our human transience while searching for a voice to stand times test. Sherman also confronts health concerns in a language that is Shaker-plain. The book concludes with the sombre, compassionate, and truly remarkable seven-part Kingdom, a meditation on the plight of the dispossessed.In a Globe and Mail review of The Well: New and Selected Poems, Fraser Sutherland notes, Sherman always seems to be listening to the voice of Canadian soil and landscape at the same time as he is attentive to the great European metaphysical theme of the soul in conflict with the world and time. So it is with Jogging with the Great Ray Charles. Sherman has also included three...

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Jogging with the Great Ray Charles Kenneth Sherman IN MEMORY OF HAROLD - photo 1

Jogging
with the
Great
Ray Charles
Kenneth Sherman
IN MEMORY OF HAROLD HEFT CONTENTS Ebony body that flared to a bell Tone - photo 2
IN MEMORY OF HAROLD HEFT
CONTENTS
Ebony body that flared to a bell. Tone holes and cool reflecting keys. The reed of Ishtar resonating in the humid chamber. Sobs of klezmer on the banks of the Vistula, or swelling symphonic in the court of some Frederick. O little Claire my splayed fingers manoeuvred. Months of wrenching squeaks until that first clear note opened a smile on the face of Mr.

Hargreaves, our school conductor (embouchure, timbre, slurs), and I ran home to uncover my fathers stack of 78s: the silky cadence of Artie Shaw, the mongrel tremolo of Sidney Bechet. Orphic stick, moody tube, please forgive me: in 1966 I put you to rest in your plush velvet case, took up the electric guitar to be one of the rockers. Now youre down in the basement with all things left off, not carried through, though I imagine a second life where the promise of your higher register is kept and your whole note lingers.

Cool blue, rectangular, held to the ear it gave off the doo-wop, the backup, the echo and soul, the hip-grind and throb of the Monkey, Mashed Potato. An infinitesimal turn of the dial poured out the forecasts, traffic, Jungle Jays shtick, talk show dementia, requests out to Sue and to Rick. Giveaways, getaways, flux of the age.

The jangle, the jingles our right to blare. Those crackling voices dissolved into air.

What I feel is old joggers happiness running along the salt-stained boardwalk within earshot of surf. Warmed tendons, loosened limbs, the blessed rhythm of my steady breathing. And Im helped along by the iPod clarity of Ray. Now theres a voice to stand times test.

Some blues grind harsh, the soul strung out along six stark strings or straining hard through the reeds of a keening harp, but Rays complete with backup brass and chorus can uplift. I too have drowned in my own tears, but not today. Today gulls drift, cacti shine, tropical fronds fan out like fishes vertebrae. All around sand is common though precious, glinting along mornings diamond-crusted edge. I pad beneath suns benediction, hit now and then by a fine salt spray that keeps me focused in the present tense. Im in sync with Rays upbeat and dont even mind the younger and quicker who pass me in their latest gear then speed out of reach.

Notes last while these bodies flashing by the bright, the ecstatic sooner or later vanish. We sing, man. Then were gone.

Language, unlike music, is condemned to have meaning. It carries the reproachable human need to explain, to justify, to convince, and, ultimately, to plead. To ask forgiveness.

It can never know the simple joy of a clarinet, the self-delighting ripple of a trumpet, the surge of a keyboard, or the unpretentious rhythm of a drum. Words, no matter what their tempo, are slowed to a hobble by thought. They must drag the weight of their double lives through the mental gate before entering the body. Music goes directly, while words are our unique and devious invention providing a fair approximation of our dust-bound being that wishes nothing more than to dance. To sing.

Alack! my child is dead;Andwith my child my joys are buried.Capulet It was quite a concert, our citys youth orchestra performing Hector Berliozs Romeo and Juliet.

Between the crescendos I could hear Tybalt curse and Juliet sigh. I could hear Friar Laurence recommend the vial of magic potion. I could hear Romeos footsteps as he rushed toward the crypt and I knew that no matter how furiously the young violinists sawed away at their instruments nothing would save the doomed lovers. What inspired such music? The first time young Berlioz saw Shakespeares tragedy he fell head over heels for the actress playing Juliet. Her name was Harriet Smithson and Berliozs parents despised her, called her a penniless Protestant. Berlioz persisted with love letters, flowers, chocolates.

The marriage didnt last. Harriet began to drink, forgot her lines, stumbled onstage, blamed her failing acting career on her husbands success. And that was not the end of their sadness. They had one child, Louis, who became a merchant sea captain. At thirty-three he contracted yellow fever and died aboard his ship, headed for the tropics. When Berlioz heard the news, he said he could feel the insufferable heat, the nauseating sway of the boat.

He grew inconsolable, burned all his correspondence, sold everything he possessed, everything except a baton given to him by Mendelssohn, one dark suit in which he could continue to conduct and in which he could be decently buried, and a doleful guitar a gift from Paganini.

So there you are at last, on the diagnosticians screen, fluctuating between clinical grey and amber, chambers opening and closing: a mollusc kneading its vital fluid. You look so primitive. Who would suspect you to inhabit a human chest, to fasten with such tenacity onto memories, lyrics, frames of an old black and-white film? Hoarder, I lie awake at night hearing you thump thump as if you were banging on the door of my life, pleading for one more chance to wipe the slate clean and begin again.
Suffering, says Simone Weil, is time without direction. Light cuts through the blinds razor thin.

In your state of suspended animation you listen for your heart to beat for the phone to ring for a voice to call you back to the living.

I arose from my hospital bed dressed and walked out of my room and down the corridor the nurses did not recognize me I knew I was the colour of a cadaver in the elevator I stared straight ahead avoiding the eyes of the orderlies I walked into the street and joined the press of people going their determined ways it was a comfort to have a direction my illness had made me desultory I had been riding deaths wave and now I was once again like everyone like everyone I strode with the swell of human traffic anxious over things that needed doing I reached the corner and fixed eyes with a street singer I knew no one in life has eyes that intense that focused his mouth moved soundless he strummed silence on his guitar his plush-lined case swung open like a coffin and for a moment I panicked believing Id been walking through the land of the living dead I tossed him a coin and kept walking blending with the crowd hoping that he could not see the mark upon me
I awoke one morning to discover one eye weird, blurry, as if opened underwater. At first I thought I was imagining the effect, denial my reaction to any physical mishap. But two days later I found myself sitting in the darkened chamber, the ophthalmologist hunched over me, his miners light probing the flooded landscape of my retina. There it is. Then the ominous pause.

A venous occlusion... some damage... I understood occlusion as blockage, but not being from the scientific side of things or wanting, perhaps, to accept responsibility for failed vision, I heard him speak the name of the goddess and wondered if those images were fading because theyd not been loved enough.

They say things are never worse than one imagines, but that is not true. For instance, history, general or personal, is not predictable. Who could have foretold the stupidity of the Somme, or the orderliness of Auschwitz? Who could have forecast the dissolution of your marriage, the suddenness of your disease? Whats true is that there is an end to even the worst suffering.
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