JJ Torres

Bell Street Lightning

Skunky-pungent smoke dances

about the dim lit recording studio.

The black vinyl muffles silence

in the moments before the sound session.

A night-skinned man,

and a mocha-skinned woman,

inhale their strawberry sweet puffs of reefer

before the song must be sung.

The sour smoke travels

up the man’s shady sun glasses

and around his dirt drenched dark hat.

He matches his attire with a blue zoot suit.

He has not seen anything

since the age of nine.

The scar, embedded below his left eye,

speaks more than his usual silence.

As the faded smoke caresses her hand,

the amber-gloved hand

picks up the sweaty, cold, Collins glass

filled with Bell Street whiskey and ice.

Ruby lips kiss

the brown juice of sin,

as the flowered scented smoke

deeply escapes her warm exhale.

A sapphire ribbon

keeps her autumn curly hair

from caressing her subtle shoulders.

Her wide almond shaped eyes

reflect the shade of an eternal night.

The beauty dwells with her;

the splendor of the earth-skinned Devi.

Her grace shadows the hand-me-down

scarlet dress curving with her voluptuous hips;

faintly being cuddled by the sour smoke.

Ashy-tray and whiskey kisses

are shared between the back-alley couple.

They don’t mind the smell of

sour smoke and bold booze

lingering in each others’ breath.

Dancing with the hazy smoke,

a jazzy-blues strut

emits from the twelve-string, honey-blonde,

copper-stringed, dobro-guitar;

starting the recording session.

“Fell down in Bell Street Alley

just as drunk as I can be.

Seems like them cocaine women

man they got rough with me.”

The night-skinned man’s

harmony is a humble sound;

like a gentle bachelor doing his

best to kindly seduce his prey.

“I’ll give you some booze down on Bell Street,

for two bits-and-a-half a throw.

You got them bottles and labels

layin’ all around out door.”

The mocha-skinned woman’s

voice compliments the responsive syncopation;

Just like the sweet sound

of soft cello strings.

As she exhales her last puffs of

strawberry sweet reefer,

a cloud of smoke waltz

out of the cold clammy room,

and finds its way down the hall

and up the stair case.

The smoke drifts up into the chilly,

late-autumn, Bell Street alleyway.

The grey smog dances with the moon-light-beams,

that grace the gloomy alley,

and finally falls apart

within the sky.

Making Clear of that Sour/Sweet Smoke:

A Revision Account of My Poem

To begin I consider myself a romantic. “Romantic” is not the harlequin-romance that is mistakenly conjured up when many think of the term; it is the philosophy that society is the root of all evil. Therefore true Rousseau-ian romantic literature tends to do its best to step out of society in order to understand the flaws of society or simply to express the beauty of nature or humanity. This poem is a romantic poem, even though it does physically take place in society, because it captures two people escaping society through music, libations, and cannabis.

The origin of this poem occurred when I was smoking with my grand-father and listening to some of his old blues records. My grand-father has a collection that he started since during WWII after a black man introduced my grand-father to blues overseas. Ever since then my white grand-father has been enchanted with the syncopation of the black man, and I am his only grand-child who really appreciates the old records as much as he does. So this poem is more of an homage to the gift my grand-father has shared with me throughout my life.

I had presented my poem and I did a draft exchange with Christi. With the draft exchange Christi corrected some grammatical errors, and she made suggestions on how to emphasize the smoke’s presence. She suggested that instead of having the smoke introduce and conclude the poem only (as I had originally framed the poem), I should have the characters actively interacting with the smoke throughout the poem. Although I originally intended for the smoke to simply frame the poem, having its presence throughout the poem has enhanced the poetic quality. Alicia had given me many good revisions that I took advantage of. The changing of the stanza that originally began with “Kisses are shared” into the “Ash-tray and whiskey kisses” was a revision that she suggested and I adopted. Also some of the stanza re-arrangement was Alicia’s suggestions as well. I made revisions to the stanza mentioning the tone of the man’s voice in order to compare his voice to the seductiveness of a young man rather than a caring father, as suggested by the class. Also the revisions on the final stanza were done because all the criticism the class had about Motown and Chicago not pertaining to the poem. Even though I really would have like to set a historical marker, the audience seemed only to care about the moment being universal rather than it being firmly set. I had kept the “night-skinned man” because I see it necessary for the refrain; I also added another “mocha-skinned woman” for the same reason. Night-skinned simply means, from my faith, a person who is a child of the moon, and the rays of color that the moon emits are dark. Children of the moon are often to be considered a direct lineage of an Indian Goddess named Kali… a Goddess who is often greeted as the night-skinned goddess. I believe it was the class’ desire to be politically correct that they wanted me to get rid of the term but I see no reason for it. I really want to emphasize their color, because black America is the culture that classically embraced the philosophy of romanticism through their creation of blues. To me black is beautiful, and the white society we live in is the oppressor that embodies evil.

The other revisions I made were my own suggestions. Changing the lyrics that were being sung was purposeful because I wanted to emphasize the use of drugs as part of their music culture; a theme that is common throughout music in US history. The original lyrics that were sung were about a faulty courtship which distracted from the jazz culture. I wanted to emphasize that this couple parties, and they probably use many drugs along with their peers. I changed the “pale zoot-suit” to the “blue zoot-suit,” because I like the assonance. I added the term “sweet strawberry smoke” to balance out the “sour smoke” within the poem. This is because I wanted to give focus on the taste of the smoke, which (if you have ever smoked cannabis) is very sweet and almost fruity. This is in contrast to how the smoke smells, which is often sour and smelling of skunk. The name Bell Street Lighting reflects the lyrics being sung. Bell Street, in this use, is a place of music and libation where those who wish to escape the chains of society can congregate. The “lightning” in the title is both the splendor and danger of a culture so embedded in a life of excess. Also the use of Bell Street places the scene in any American town rather than one set place.

I like this poem much, and I have enjoyed the revisions I have made to it. For now it is done, I really don’t have any plans for it unless I turn the poem into a narrative poem. For some time now I have wanted to write a fiction about a blues man born in 1899 in rural Tennessee who grows up to be traveling blues man. He embraces the piedmont-delta-blues style, because it is my favorite type of blues to play. I want the story to capture the soul of blues from its slave roots to the beginning of World War II when blues spreads throughout West Europe and the Latin Americas. Part of his story is his travels up to the North in order to get to Chicago so that he can record a blues session. Maybe I can somehow work this poem into the story I wish to create. Even though I have many of the scenes in my head, I have to start to write the story in order to add this poem to it.

[original poem presented in workshop]

This is not the Stone to Brown Your Bread

Skunky-pungent smoke dances

about the dim lit recording studio.

The black vinyl muffles silence

in the moments before the sound session.

A night-skinned man,

and a mocha-skinned woman,

inhale their last puffs of reefer

before the song must be sung.

The sour smoke travels

up the man’s shady sun glasses

and around his dirt drenched dark hat.

He matches his attire with a pale zoot-suit.

He hasn’t seen anything

since the age of nine.

The scar,

embedded below his left eye,

speaks more than his usual silence.

The amber-gloved hand

picks up the sweaty, cold, Collins glass

filled with Tennessee whiskey and ice.

Ruby lips kiss

the brown juice of sin.

A sapphire ribbon

keeps her autumn curly hair

from caressing her subtle shoulders.

Her enormous almond shaped eyes

reflect the shade of an eternal night.

The beauty that dwells with her

is a splendor of an earth-skinned goddess.

Her grace shadows the hand-me-down

scarlet dress that curves with her voluptuous hips.

Kisses are shared between

the night-skinned couple.

They don’t mind the smell of

ash-tray and whiskey

upon each other’s breath.

A jazzy-blues strum

Emits from the

twelve-string, honey-blonde,

copper-stringed, dobro-guitar;

introducing the recording session.

“Look’er here woman,

don’t ask twice.

You get me rollin’

I’ll get ya mighty nice.”

The night-skinned man’s

harmony is a humble sound;

like a caring father reading

Brothers Grimm’s tales

to his dozing children.

“Now look’er here partner,

you must be a drive.

I don’t like a man

Whose ain’t got no jive.”

Her voice compliments

the responsive syncopation.

A sweet sound

of soft cello strings

compares to her tone.

A cloud of smoke waltz’s

out of the cold clammy room,

and finds its way down the hall

and up the stair case.

The smoke comes on little cat feet

up into the chilly, late-autumn, Motown alleyway.

Grey-ness dances with the moon-light-beams,

that grace the gloomy alley,

and finally falls apart

in the sky.