A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry
To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see
No genius in David G.,
No elemental form and sound
BY master Francis clearly 'tis expressed:
The folks of Papimania are blessed;
True sleep for them alone it seems was made
With US the copy only has been laid;
And by Saint John, if Heav'n my life will spare,
I'll see this place where sleeping 's free from care.
E'en better still I find, for naught they do:
'Tis that employment always I pursue.
Just add thereto a little honest love,
And I shall be as easy as a glove.
In the Quarter of the Negroes
Where the doors are doors of paper
Dust of dingy atoms
Blows a scratchy sound.
Amorphous jack-o'-Lanterns caper
And the wind won't wait for midnight
For fun to blow doors down.
By the river and the railroad
With fluid far-off goind
Boundaries bind unbinding
Our sardine fishermen work at night in the dark
of the moon; daylight or moonlight
They could not tell where to spread the net,
unable to see the phosphorescence of the
shoals of fish.
They work northward from Monterey, coasting
Santa Cruz; off New Year's Point or off
The look-out man will see some lakes of milk-color
light on the sea's night-purple; he points,
HARK! Young Democracy from sleep
Our careless sentries raps:
A backwash from the Future’s deep
Our Evil’s foreland laps.
Unknown, these Titans of our Night
Their New Creation make:
Unseen, they toil and love and fight
That glamoured Man may wake.
You think you kill me with your hateness. You hate murderously; in blood, in humanity.
Your poison has no place in our society.
The venom that seeps from your mouth have always been heard but will not pierce through and kill me.
Is it faith or fear? Is it your submission to a deity or one to your community?
Are you listening to the valid speech of god or the invalid words of your closest enemies......those opportunists, tearing your daughters. Those women with compassion, resilience, love and ambition.
When my chips are down
And I’m feeling blue...
My car has a flat
And da rent is past due...
My wife just left me
And she took my dog...
My thoughts are all confused
Cuz my head’s in a fog...
Right after the turn of the century
The Mardi Gras Indians came alive...
The tribes came from all over the city
From the different wards where they still survive...
Downtown Indians use sequins and feathers...
Uptowners use feathers, rhinestones and beads...
The main part of every costume is the patch...
A message from the heart is what it reads...
Here come the flambeau
on Mardi Gras night...
Bringing dark parades alive
by sharing their light...
When the sun goes down
and the nights get cool...
The Flambeau Nation
is the Mardi Gras rule...
On the museum walls, a many hued color explosion,
As in varicolored gardens where beauty is spoken,
Or emerald forests where strange wildness thrives,
Scarlet macaws, blue frogs and orchid bee hives!
On nameless city streets, a steady fashion parade,
And sunshine orchards where luscious fruit is made.
Circuses and carnivals, with clowns and balloons,
And seeing flamingos dancing, on golden afternoons.