Three Odes and Selected Poems of a Settian Man
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Three Odes and Selected Poems of a Settian Man David E. Patton 1 The mocking bird is continuous and poets are no difference but instead of harassing cardinals, robin, starlings and black birds we harassed the government and the ruling church. Sometime we must cease our return fire and give in to beauty we must lay down our pens put away our keyboards and take notes of the homeless cat that huddle under a tipped over waving pool and smell the perfumed air and the blushing moon when in each city and town the Wild Irish Rose night with its rosy cheeks and dark eyes to see what perish with the moon. Poets are our savors our saints in living clothes Honey mouth and full of uncontrolled enthusiasm the muddy, the stale pone of our forgivefullness that we may see ourselves ripple with delight and desires fulfilled, it is the poet who will plea our case before the Gods poets in faded jeans and their ways of amiable monks out on an occasion for to save our souls. They are desperate for us they are beer gut just like us and grizzled beard tossing haikus off the work of the poet because they are masquerades of who we are this hour the poet looks behind our masks and see what is hidden as the real self that we keep in our secret faces and only they can and Gods willing fashion with words who we wish to be, they tell us about all our faults and friends us with the wooing of words the cut of night into small bite size pieces and find friendship in the individuality of trees and mocking birds on the wing and they ask us to follow them into our dreams where is seen all matter of being human the girlish boy, the mannish woman the teething baby as cosmos incarnate. When the Gods laid out the framework of poets They made us contrary to the call like poets guardian poets are rebellious heroes and sometime lost souls lingering in the dark forest where we plant our wants and wishes for world peace a forgotten thing to dream. Life is crowed and tight breath it¶s a come around for us for a space of time that only nature can design. I was brought into the fold in 1953 half way between the birth and the death of a century. I am old schooled bold and black my red back throwing frizzled moods with my boss in Denver I am old schooled of poetic rules on how to be human mid century a child of the seventies I came to age and learned my ways of who to befriend and win their confident as a friend mate when the poet is returning fire for some offence made against man it is they who come to defend to win back our glory to appease the Gods and angels that sits bear bottom on the low hanging branches and piss down on the passer byer who takes it as drops of rain yes Gods and angels are insanely sane when it comes to man. Love is the bitch that pissed on me when I was a younger tree and poets are nothing more they are stray dogs in our familiar heaven lost and homeless dogs who raise their legs to mark their territory Some dogs are disobedience to our will for they guards the secrets of the Gods and Gods are coetaneous and bullish as bullies who bullet us. The God of the ant is my God. The hawk-eyed hawk God is mines God, the starling bathing in the puddle of dead rain from which it drinks Is my God, my Gods are many as life I see they woo you and me. They mind their Ps and Qs and grow like weeds by a governing rule they my brothers called Gods but who hung on the tree was only a son as you and me and subject to the desires and temptation of the flesh are we. Some Gods are caution of the scent of man caught on the wind some men hide their scent from foe and woman seen as so in the know who to have birth their sons some women folk yoke in a woman to love as one in the know in the life and Settian men. Women in the know of how the cosmos goes its round as a woman a sun a tree¶s strength is 2 in its roundness its womainess Some men are worms laying seed in flowers to get to the flesh of the fruit these men who wish their babies well and take to the wind is only doing what other animals do fathers too to do the truth that is always blue and the telling is always red yellow is the last word you read and green means many things that grow in this world men are mine to love and foe to plow and grow but never cargo ship their souls or enslave their desires and sexual hopes for cotton, tobacco, sugar or, rum my grandfather Charlie Ike cottoned his lungs never smoked or rum his free days and nights a saintly man till old and gray and I bathe him in the tub his second babyhood had begun. Poets as mocking birds sing many songs and there-by will we get some wrong but it is our duty to ask you to sing along what moves the spirit as some gospel song on the tongue. So after the bars are closed and only infomercials rules the airwaves and the late night talk is about the morrow the poets will still be awake to see what light steals across the dawn. David E. Patton St. Louis, Mo. 3 Table of Content Ode to AiméCésair ««««««««««««««««««1 Ode to Beauty«««««««««««««««««««....10 Ode to Faderico Garcia Lorca«««««««««««««...13 Morning News«««««««««««««««««««...17 All I wanted to do«««««««««««««««««.«.18 For the Color Folks«««««««««««««««..««..19 Pregnancy is Walking«««««««««««««««««.20 Beneath the Moon««««««««««««««««......«21 My Sons Needn¶t Pay Homage««««««««««......««22 I¶m a Bad Mother Fucker««««««««««««««...«23 SouCity««««««««««««««««««««......«24 Miss Lucy, She¶s in that Way««««««««««««««.26 I¶ll Cry No More«««««««««««««««««...«..27 I Went to the Pawn Shop«««««««««««««««....28 You Sho Do Treat Me Good Baby««««««««..««««29 Old Mrs. Reagan Told Us to Just Say No«««««««««...30 Anthony Patton-Burton Wolfrang«««««««««««..«.31 I Would Have Love to do Me Dirty«««««««««««....33 Mellow Bones««««««««««««««««««««..34 If God«««««««««««««««««««««««...35 I Hear a Street Blues««««««««««««««««««36 Portrait of God««««««««««««««««««««.37 Poem Written on Two Lines by Countee Cullen«««««.««38 Working for the Woman«««««««««««««««..«39 I Like Sounds««««««««««««««««««..««..40 O Holy God My father««««««««««««««««..«41 A Midsummer¶s Night««««««««««««««..«««42 The Expert Witness««««««««««««««««...««43 Voodoo Wont Work««««««««««««««««««..45 Certain Gestures Holding Pure Forms«««««««««««..46 A St. Louis Tale««««««««««««««««««««47 The Glen Black«««««««««««««««««««.«48 Why I want to have Sex with Poets«««««««««««..«49 The Short of it«««««««««««««««««««..«.51 4 An Atomic Explosion««««««««««««««««««52 I¶ve Gotten to the Point in My Life««««««««««««..«53 Black Attack««««««««««««««««««««««..54 In Such an Age as This««««««««««««««««««..55 En Las Tardes««««««««««««««««««««««.56 In the Negro Quarters««««««««««««««««««.«57 For Anne Waldman and Reed Bye««««««««««««««.58 Angel of My Desiring«««««««««««««««««««.59 A Love Poem««««««««««««««««««««««...60 A Brush with Papa Death«««««««««««««««««.«61 Fragment and Reconstruction from the Book of Rys«««««..««.62 Friends Are Fattening Themselves««««««««««««.«.«.63 The Smell of Death««««««««««««««««««.«..«64 I Went Away From Uijonbu««««««««««««««««.....65 Gertrude Stein N Mind««««««««««««««««««.....66 A Place in Your Heart««««««««««««««««««.«..67 If Ten Thousand People«««««««««««««««««««68 The PromiseLand«««««««««««««««««««««.69 I Slipped on a Dream««««««««««««««««««..«..70 I Keep Droppin My Gs«««««««««««««««««.«.«71 By Deep Design«««««««««««««««««««.««...72 5 Ode to AiméCésair The body of a black man is stretched across the sky with stars in his eyes and the band-aid moon on his cheek. All the empires are calling; all wish to overcome their defeat at the hand of time. There in Americus the black men are kept in the closet close to the hangers where a lynched man swinging in the broken wind is reading the Bible that has forgotten how to save him. The body of a black man is stretched across the sky with its pin point light lit by distant fire telling that there is life in the womb of night. In Americus the children of the Buffalo are crying out but Americus can not hear then there for she have stuffed her ears with dollar bills that bleed oil across the face of Washington painted in a school on the San Carlos reservation and the Ute are united with the memory of Chief Ouray and the Lenid meteor showers streak across the black man¶s body bold and biting at his nipples, bold and bitterby the blood that bleed its beautiful bounty born by the Buffalo¶s brother. The body of a black man is stretched across the night where crime is committed in the heated heart heard by the hard hour of a flower smelling of baby¶s babble of mama and dada, papa and the Hungarian¶s tata, a tic for a tock runs the baby¶s body clock ticking as darkly of any black man¶s skin. The baby will come to call himself nigger in a whisper barely heard in the smell of cornbread baking in the freezer where we keep out memories cool, where we want for not the weeping of a good man mending his mind mindfully mining the Moor¶s motion mapped and moped by militants marooned in the bloody battle buying its time in the told tall tale of tongues.