One facet of Joel Dias-Porter’s poetic that I find nearly endlessly fascinating, is that this is a poet who is able to meet the reader where they are. For example, I don’t have much knowledge of Pittsburgh, which is clearly held dear to the poet. I don’t quite fully grasp every aspect of what Dias-Porter is doing…there’s layers to this poetic…..what the maroon highlighted words are doing, although it appears these highlighted words are creating an entirely new/alternative poem...or another picture within the big picture of Ideas of Improvisation. There are aspects of the poet’s craft which remain a mystery to me, and I’m okay with that. Some of this stuff is likely above my head no doubt, however, Joel Dias-Porter writes an inviting stanza, with lively music & a keen eye for that which moves! It is because of these valued aspects of his craft that I am eager to keep exploring, keep returning to this collection & opening the door for further discovery. I’m good with part of this being a mystery to me, if not lost altogether in certain respects.
Off the bat, Ideas of Improvisation & its music are delightful! Like a delving upon the lingual dance floor of an audacious sound selector who was raised on Emily Dickinson poems, all the while remaining just as studious with Ornette Coleman’s body of work as with Whitman or the Greek classics. Ideas is less verbal acrobatics & more relatable to verbal yoga—the speaker(s) are ever centered in their prowess for stretching & imploring & pushing the body of sound towards meaning & connection…whether you be a regular on Joel Dias-Porter’s dance floor, or whether you be a newcomer—there is much delight, many motions, many linguistically dexterous ignitions of vision…there are many possibilities on this dance floor of language.
The second aspect of this collection I noticed right away, and is an area of further exploration in continuing to read Ideas of Improvisation—I am surprised, curious & inspired by the movement of Dias-Porter’s lines. The ebb & flow. The peaks & valleys. If I didn’t know Dias-Porter, and I really don’t, aside from what can be gleaned from this body of work…I would guess this is the work of a trained or maybe self-taught Jazz musician. Don’t take my word for it though, just check this out:
…let’s say your brain is a Pittsburgh bound train
but your mouth is a horse drawn Amish wagon
and what dances across the stage of your cranium
isn’t always projected on the scrim of your skin,
or your voice twists trying to signal “I believe you”
since she believes inflections the way Crayola
once believed in a peach crayon called “FLESH.”
One reason to appreciate Jazz music, to my mind, is that the unadulterated, unexpected & unknown can shine through any given piece of music, at any given moment & often in moments extended & imbued with the player’s spiritual imprint, with the player's personality. There are no mistakes when your human spirit is the compass. And maybe you as a listener don’t know what is coming next, and maybe the human being behind the saxophone doesn’t know what’s coming next. This is the truth of the human predicament. And this is the ground where truth telling is allowed to flourish. Perhaps the only ground that truth telling is allowed to flourish: when the player’s spirit is intrinsically connected to the instrument, when the instrument is an extension of the player's very being. The above excerpt begins with an evocative music, the poet is connected to the instrument, the instrument flows from poet's being...the instrument in this case, language—
With this connection, the grounds of the poem are made fertile for planting of the truth. In this excerpt, (one aspect of the truth) is the absurdity & failure of human imagination to call a peach crayon “FLESH.”
What if, instead of “excerpt,” I use the word “sample” when speaking about pieces or tidbits of a poem removed from the overall context of the poem—when a portion of a Joel Dias-Porter poem is removed from its overall context within the poem itself—a sampling of the original composition—sure, the original context may be lost, but we also, as readers, get something new. One of the vividly exciting aspects of spending time with Ideas of Improvisation, is that the poems can be sampled, the lines can be flipped & time-stretched & tuned & pruned & each time you get something new.
Perhaps the original context is not lost at all. Perhaps the
sampled lines can grow to enliven & enrich the textures & context(s) of
the original composition…perhaps we as readers can develop a richer
understanding of the poem as a whole, by using this sampling technique. Not unlike
the technique that, say, the indelible A Tribe Called Quest producers, Ali Shaheed Muhammad & Q-Tip, would
have used to craft the timeless work of art that is Scenario, for example. Have you ever listened to a Tribe record, and then found yourself sonically time-traveling back to Kool & The Gang, Stevie Wonder, Ohio Players? This is a similar situation with Dias-Porter's poems. Sample Joel Dias-Porter poems & you may wind up time-traveling back to Whitman, Dickinson, The Last Poets, Komunyakaa, etc.
So yeah, there is a rich & vital spiritual connection to Jazz & Hip Hop, to Black music, which is front & center in Ideas of Improvisation. I also want to explore something that seems to be uniquely Joel Dias-Porter’s. Actually, I am aware that there are other poets who do this. However, I haven’t yet encountered the level of style, the smoothness—the coolness—the down to Earth & simultaneous flyness—with which Dias-Porter manages this. Because when I’m reading these poems, I feel like I’m having a conversation with the poet & with the speaker(s). These poems feel like conversations.
And this feeling is emboldened by actual quotes interspersed throughout the collection. The spiritual connection to the instrument is made even stronger here again...by the poet choosing to address the reader with directive commands. Not a command from any outside authority, but a command in the sense that seemingly extends from an inner-authority, an inner-confidence, an inner-knowledge—and the spirituality of these poems being rich & of depth—I’m reminded of the beauty & poetry found within the Quran.
When the speaker directs reader to, “Say / Buffalo buffalo buffalo,” or to “Say your friend Gigi claims it may storm later,” or to “Say the Creator my OG,” there is an authority established, but I don’t see it as an authority over anything or anyone, more so an authority that comes from the knowledge of oneself, and how one fits in & contrasts with the world, with society—an authority that comes from a direct knowledge of suffering, an authority derived from an understanding of human joy & toil & grace…an authority that comes from an understanding of the human predicament.
The speaker is seemingly consoling the reader, via a voice of understanding, a voice of connection. A voice rich in empathy. The directions are warm, I posit here, only because the sense of authority is coming from within. The speaker is rich in empathy...because of the authentic spiritual connection between player & instrument. After all, aren’t all poets to a certain extent speaking to themselves as well as to the reader/listener? Aren’t we also simultaneously speaking to ourselves in conversations with others. Walt Whitman is mentioned early on in this collection, so it seems Joel Dias-Porter may also sing a song of himself! Hypothesis!
There is a deep well of wisdom in this form of conversation, simultaneously poet to self & poet to reader. Are you looking for something? What are you seeking? Say the Creator my OG. Had your heart broken yesterday, last week, an hour ago...months ago and don’t know what to do about it now? Say your friend Gigi claims it may storm later. Do you see systematic injustice and obvious violations of the public’s trust on the part of those in positions of power..do you see something or anything at all? Are you presently fighting for your life? Are you on the ropes? Are you taking those corners slowly? At high speeds? Or maybe you just want to dance with language, and with ideas and with time. Maybe you know this world is fucked up & it feels that way beyond measure sometimes, maybe you just need a reminder, maybe you want to remember that there is another human being out there somewhere, perhaps in Pittsburgh writing a brilliant poem right now, who sees that despair is always an option & continues to choose against it anyhow. Say Buffalo buffalo buffalo.
PORTRAIT OF THE AUTIST AS A STARFISH IN COFFEE
for Fritz, Harro, Ernst and Hellmuth
Say your friend Gigi claims it may storm later,
but the primary aspects of your spectrum
are aspic, raspy, an aspirant. So perhaps you
beam an asparagus smile because your brain
just conjured up Oran “Juice” ones singing
“I saw you (and him) walking in the rain.”
Is this why Benjamin Franklin invented the internet
so that people could talk, but not face to face?
When you look at people you can read the ratios
in the bone structure beneath their skin, almost
the way other folk can read people’s faces
like a vegan scanning a list of ingredients
but what if every expression was pimpled in Braille
and you had only catcher’s mitts below your wrists,
or suppose when told to let sleeping dogs lie,
you wondered how a Doberman could be dishonest?
Fact: The U.S. has over 95,000 miles of shoreline,
but on some plates the border between the country
of carrots and the province of peas will never meet—
let’s say your brain is a Pittsburgh bound train
but your mouth is a horse drawn Amish wagon
and what dances across the stage of your cranium
isn’t always projected on the scrim of your skin,
or your voice twists trying to signal “I believe you”
since she believes inflections the way Crayola
once believed in a peach crayon called “FLESH.”
And maybe you can instantly multiply and divide
four or five digit numbers in your head, but
what if—for once—grasping a metaphor wasn’t
like finding a formula to solve cube roots?
OK, perhaps Ben Franklin didn’t exactly
invent the internet, but the internet does
contain pictures of him inventing electricity.
Fact: Pittsburgh has over 400 bridges,
most of which don’t cross rivers, and say
she extends her hand to pat your arm
yet you jerk away because every finger
broadcasts radiostatic charge, and alright
Ben Franklin didn’t really invent electricity
but he certainly earned many pennies cutting
off lights during a thunderstorm,
so you try to stop to collect he new coins
of thought spilling from your pockets
even as you spot the pot on the back
of her electric range approaching a boil.
And we all know how you can hear even
incandescent bulbs like humming mosquitos
but as you attempt to read her tone spinning
like a Sinatra single on the platter of a Victrola,
Gigi just perplexes her head, peering
into your conch-like mouth as your arms
splay like a sea star mired in mocha sand
and her boat slowly begins to turn to steam.
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