Notice, the docent said, the absence
where the leaves of bamboo cross,
how the artist did not paint
one over the other but left a gap
between the two background halves.
This technique the Asian painters called a moon shadow.
Thelonious stood in the back
silent, bobbing his head
in an odd rhythm only he heard,
a tempo conducted by the baton
of distant wind-blown bamboo.
His musical chop was a signature all his own.
His hands on the keys zigged and zagged,
men climbing the crooked mountain who
passing the waving bamboo
stopped, silent, paused a beat or two
to relish the quiet around them.
One strikes discordantly at his qin, and they resume.
Showing posts with label bamboo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bamboo. Show all posts
Monk
Posted by
Mark Folse
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Labels: bamboo, Japanese art, jazz, New Orleans, poem, poetry, Thelonious Monk
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