Breakfast in Little Talks, Ubud
Jazz, travel and hungover Sunday mornings.
Jazz swings softly
In Little Talks latte and noodles
For breakfast as tourists
Walk by with Bintangs to get
Sunday started and
I’m glad they don’t stop.
_
They leave Little Talks
To me.
_
Li Qing on the menu
Over mie goring
With the jazz swinging softly
Piano and saxophone and silence.
Little stops in the sound somehow
Help the flow
Moments of silence in just the right
Spaces
Between the notes no music
Can accompany a party
Or a hangover
With equal assurance
Quite so well as jazz.
_
Turn up the volume
Lift the tempo and perhaps
The Sunday morning Bintangers
In the street
Might have stopped.
_
Or not.
_
Someone asked me in England
Once
If I understood jazz -
An aficionado an expert
Making sure I wasn’t
A poser
Making sure I truly
Got it
Before deciding if I was worth
Talking to, I suppose -
I don’t pretend to understand it,
I just like it
I answered.
_
A fairly decent
Response I thought but thinking
Now
The question annoys me more
Than it did.
_
It’s music.
_
Listen and like it or
Don’t.
Feel what it wants you to feel or
Don’t.
_
One summer in Tirana
An apartment in Blloku and
Next door a jazz teacher opened a cafe and
His students would play
Every night while people
Smoked thin cigarettes and drank red wine
With Charlie Chaplin
Who never said a word.
_
Teacher told his students
Jazz was meant to be played in places
Like this
To people
Like this
And sometimes the feeling of joy
For his music
Became so much
He would grab his saxophone and join
Playing loud
And fast and march
With his students playing
Out of the cafe and into the street
Saxophones trumpets trombones
Playing laughing and cheering
Down the street and back again
Back inside where the drummer
Kept the beat til they got back
And they’d blend back into that beat
Without a note
Out of place or perhaps
With every note out of place I
Wouldn’t know I
Wouldn’t understand I
Just liked it I
Just felt the joy of their
Playing.
_
Seven years later
Post-pandemic the place
Was closed down
When I went back at last
to Tirana.
_
Noise complaints from neighbours who
Never
Felt the joy.
_
The piano trills in Little Talks
Popping bubbles over
Soft-scratch drums steady
Beneath the swirling music
As the heat beats down
In the street
The music swirling gently
Like a stream streaming softly
Out into the street where nothing ever
Stops.
About the Creator
Roderick Makim
Read one too many adventure stories as a child and decided I'd make that my life.
I grew up on a cattle station in the Australian Outback and decided to spend the rest of my life seeing the rest of the world.
For more: www.roderickmakim.com
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