Willie “The Lion” Smith
 
Take a walk to up-town Harlem 1932
Where jazz ferments in the moonshine whisky tubs
Of a thousand low down joints
Between Lennox and Seventh Avenue.
 
Down the stairs to Pod’s and Jerry’s
Where the Lion holds court
Bending the dancing waiters to his loping rhythm,
A savage ivory king smoke blurred shadow
Driving on his delirious ranks of musicians
With staccato grunts from his throne -
A master chain-handling his pack of hounds:
Women rhythm enslaved writhe in his vortex.
 
Light yet fierce (piercing the souls he controls)
Cross-rhythms constellate from leonine touch,
Muscular as slow motion kill of zebra.
And through all his lazy surge
(Bending the very furniture to his swing)
Mouth-clamped cigar never dies,
And the derby hat will not fall,
Nor silk-lined coat slip while silver-tipped cane
Stands guard by the jingle box.
 
Then curious to hear sounds of spring overlaying swing –
Echoes of Debussy and counterpoint Chopinesque.
The European concert hall floating in speakeasy smoke
But oh so gorgeously behind the ensnared drummer’s swish -
The left hand now a calm sea gently rocking boat,
Then striding and stalking like a dancing giraffe.
 
A rare moment –
Rays of genius dust filtering through stained glasses,
The sermon soaring over congregated heads
But moving feet in sacred formations.
The soft rage of left hand duelling against
Fierce delicacy of right,
Both sides reconciled in one paradoxical rhythm
That sets Time against itself.
Where now is the Word of Swing to be heard?
 
The old churches are closed.
Somewhere in a forgotten Harlem cellar
A silk-lined coat hangs on a stand
With an old derby hat.
 
Nicholas Gill
November 2013