Jazz and Poetry

Abstract

I was a brand new English professor in 1957 when I moved from San Jose, California, to Baltimore to teach at Towson State College. I had played drums for thirteen years, through high school and college and several years of high school teaching and some time in graduate school. Along with everything else I owned, I brought along my new set of Trixon drums: a cool bop arrangement consisting of a small thuddy bass, a shallow, very sensitive snare and its stand, a big Zildjian ride cymbal and stand, a hi-hat with a matched pair of crisp 12-inch Zildjians, and a nice fast bass pedal. That was the whole drum kit, and I could carry it in and out in one trip. I was very proud of it and of my newfound modern style of playing. I also had with me my poems, a sheaf of fifty or more, and I was proud of them too, though I had published almost nothing-a couple in Bob Greenwood's magazine, Talisman, and I had an acceptance from Arizona Quarterly. And at San Jose State I had become friends with Bill Stafford. I thought of myself as a poet and a jazz drummer, and the two things were completely separate. I've often wondered why my father let me start playing the drums. At fourteen I was a good kid. I had some roughneck friends, but I'd never been in trouble with the law, or caused him any trouble. Maybe he thought it would keep me out of trouble. More likely, he imagined that if I learned to play an instrument decently, I might make money doing it. My father cared nothing for music itself; and my drumming,