Minnesota writer Bill Holm, who died earlier this year, was a family friend. The other day, while cleaning out old stuff my dear Ma stumbled across this poem that Bill wrote about Scott Joplin. She gave it to me, knowing I am fan of both men. Enjoy.
Scott Joplin by Bill Holm
I
He never smiled, his friends said,
But looked out at you
From those doleful eyes,
Like turned-down gas lamps
Set in a coal-black wall.
He did not sing
The song of the happy darky
To set toes tapping
In St. Louis whorehouses.
The darkness within him
Was darker and lovelier than
The elegant black curve of his nose –
Than the smooth black hands
Moving over the ivory keys
Like blackbirds flying in a fog.
II
They said he had a daughter once
Whose death cracked his heart
Like a sounding board
He spent ten years
Bringing back to life
A honey-colored baby
Deserted under a tree in Arkansas,
To grow up dropping forgiveness
Like magnolia blossoms
On the lines of music paper
Spread out before him.
III
In all the old photographs
The mouth turns down at the corners
Like a beached canoe.
Perhaps he knew what would come,
The brain gone, the hands trembling,
The silent piano standing in the corner
Like an upright coffin with teeth–
Waiting to pull him in, devour him
If he should touch it,
And spit him out, years later.
His black skin would come
As in a roll out of the player
Full of little squares and diamonds
That are the ghosts of his hands.
IV
Behind the iron strings
The leaves and flowers–
Maple leaf, fig leaf, rose leaf, palm leaf
Chrysanthemum and gladiola
Sweet sugar-cane and pineapple
Dance again.
His life a heliotrope bouquet
Grown in the darkness behind the darkness–
In the thin stony soil of Missouri
Made rich by his black hands.
Thanks, Bill.
–Grant Dawson
