NYU Black Renaissance Noire NYU Black Renaissance Noire Volume 16.2: Fall 2016 - Page 90

Warm melody , two masters in a field Where rhythm , lodged bone deep , Helps ferment and hybridize as if Composting compositions In mycorriza-like terrain . Soul feeding . Feeding your soul , your soil , your fertility . Eyes closed , rich brass paradise , Nourishing on lyrical tones , Until someone shouted : “ YEAH ! Art Farmer the master .” You humbly replied with a simple thank you As you bowed , offering your flumpet While praising in a deep soothing voice : “ The one and only Clifford Jordan .”
The tenor was sharp , C sharp Sharper than a sickle It became the chalice of pure sound . Jordan roasted his horn crisp , Holding the mouth-piece So his tongue could : panmpa pahda peedee panh won bon .
Soft fire , sounds of passion that blazed Out anger with music planted In the center of hearts . Keep me in The warm rain of your sound that reigned-in Snapped ropes of your birth-land , where Maestros of division rot-gutted souls , Plotted against your skin . Still , you blew angels .
Farmer blew to ocean core , fishing out Ancestral notes from every scale , every cell . Sowing restrained , a tight swing . I reaped the Farmer ’ s notes . Elements cultivated from a tradition : Fresh , pure and bittersweet .
When I heard of Art Farmer ’ s death , I picked up my dormant trumpet And tried to blow “ bloodcount .” But my lungs were empty of notes .