Marianne was an ordinary girl

born in an ordinary town and

she wore a flower-print dress

Her brother Cane stole her honour

when she was still seventeen

and Marianne she did not cry

Only promised that one day

while he weren’t looking

that he would certainly die

Marianne skipped, not walked

when no one else was looking and

helped her mother with the cooking

She had no friends apart from Ty

and tho’ that girls eyes filled up

she never had learned to cry

She walked at night through

the lonesome Blacktown Wood

and talked her heart to Jesus

She managed not to listen too

while them dumb river-boys

nagged with ribbons of abuse

She dreamed of living with her sisters

near the ‘trotting’ racetrack

on the high road out of Syracuse

Her father had bought her home

a pair of grey-blue sneekers

and she wore them till they tore

She lay that night so hurt

on her palette bed watching stars

and realising why she swore

Walking to work in the fall

it was her very first day

all she could do was smile

She walked the long route

through Bennis field cemetery

so she could feed them ponies

‘Six-bits’ and one quarter

would give her a dollar each day

that she worked in tha’ fac-tory

Marianne so plain, so pretty

She kept her vermillion smile

from six in the morning till four

When she heard the tale

of her brothers tragic death

she just sat and made her face

written byedenbray 21.01.2012

☤ ☤ ☤

This poem is a dual-tribute to Langston Hughes who wrote such great words, he was known as the jazz -poet and Wikepedia the Free encyclopedia 

☤ ☤ ☤ 

Six-Bits Blues 

     Gimme six-bits’ worth o’ ticket
On a train that runs somewhere.
I say six-bits’ worth o’ ticket
On a train that runs somewhere.
I don’t care where it’s goin’
Just so it goes away from here. 

Baby, gimme a little lovin’
But don’t make it too long.
A little lovin’, babe, but
Don’t make it too long.
Make it short and sweet, your lovin’,
So I can roll along.

I got to roll along!

☤ ☤ ☤

The Negro Artist and The racial Mountain

The younger Negro artists who create now intend to express
our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame.
If white people are pleased we are glad. If they are not,
it doesn’t matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly, too.
The tom-tom cries, and the tom-tom laughs. If colored people
are pleased we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure
doesn’t matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow,
strong as we know how, and we stand on top of the mountain
free within ourselves.

The night is beautiful,
So the faces of my people.

The stars are beautiful,
So the eyes of my people

Beautiful, also, is the sun.
Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

Langston Hughes and ‘jazz poetry’ ~ Wikipedia the Free Encyclopedia

Vermillion or Vermilion as listed on Wikipedia

‘Six-bits blues’

eb comment : I tried to write this clipped and plain – with a kind of staccato rythm – like jazz … this as a sort of tribute to Langston Hughes who they give ‘jazz poetry’ to … but as with good  jazz – ‘john coltrane’ – ‘miles davis’ jazz it may rhyme and fall, it may not … it can improvise … it can divert … tangent … its just an idea … a little random but it has a classic trail … i’m obsessed with america … but there’s some britain in it too – its mixed! … jazz

EX. Transcript Jerry Maguire
 EXT. PORCH -- NIGHT                Jerry on the porch, as Chad exits.  Chad now fully plays the
              part of friend with seniority.  Looks the taller Jerry up and
  CHAD                         Treat her right, man.  She's...

 93.    JERRY                                (self-conscious)
                        Yeah... well...
  CHAD                         She's great.  And I know this is
                        a little awkward, but I want you
                        to use this.
               Chad ruumages in bag for a moment.  Jerry is somewhat
              horrified at what Chad might be giving him.  Out comes a
              cassette tape.
  CHAD                                (continuing; intense)
                        This... is Miles Davis and John
                        Coltrane. Stockholm.  1963... two
                        masters of freedom, playing in a
                        time before their art was
                        corrupted by a zillion cocktail
                        lounge performers who destroyed
                        the legacy of the only American
                        artform -- JAZZ.
               Jerry takes the tape, as the front door squeaks open.
              Dorothy shoos Chad away, quietly leads Jerry inside.

Miles Davis

john coltrane


About edenbray

I've always enjoyed writing and thats all I want to do... .. . I’m not sure why I stopped writing, was it 9/11? .. . Eden Bray is born ugly, wet and covered in blood, mucous and bodily functions. The effluence of my short life .. . I'm a Writer and Artist - since 1966, now a Blogger ~ I write lots of poems, written essays, articles, reviews, opinion + comment .. . please join the shebang but more importantly please leave me a marker with a comment for my ego and my encouragement :- thanks, edenbray
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