Second Tribute to Morrison

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Second Tribute to Morrison
Beloved

Submitted: December 18, 2006

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 18, 2006

A A A

A A A


 

Have I called you many times before

Again, again, tonight philosophy none:

Wonder I, you need to know? something more?

But wretched muse twists me no more

neither an ambassador nor a god

I am what I am, a poor-rich lad

Whither call I thee? To tell you a tale?

Ah! but there are too many where I wretched failed!

 

In a distant land seven seas afar,

lives a black women called Morrison, pretty gal.

Question me not why I sing her praise,

For she’s not like coetzee’s disgrace

Amrica and the planet called earth—

still shudder, sway at Sethe’s birth

I too, question what was before!

And thank thee Morrison, for history

Long ago, a day before , herded

gagged—and toiled her ancestors

And years hence, and hence this

Black woman from Harlem land

wrote about the mess that was before

 

She cooks and fries:

 

Everything called life, and all the lies.

(Perhaps THIS may differ,

when some silver ornament my hair)

Question not her , for she sings of lifes’,

Hold not Elton a candle in the wind,

She’s not Lady Diana, she’s Morrison by far.

 

 

Toni, Toni, Toni; what should I say,

One day she picked a pen and went astray

Beloved took me a few pages, until I was dead

Of shock, and shame.

Pity, Lock, stock and barrel—it’s not a game.

She holds a torch to Klu Klux Klan’s arse

All the way from Michigan, till the very last.

 

Objects and Subjects, Gravestones

left, even after we’ve traveled this far

Only heard have I, of the Harlem lust

scared now for then, neither ashes nor dust

Leave nothing for critics to chide

Impervious like a rhinoceros hide

 

 

(Here I break off, to take a snide,

Mlton’s similie, Satan’s soliloquy

On critics, beware, something to learn

Satan says that : “ It is better to reign

in hell than to rule in heaven)

“Reign-In”, hell and, Satan’s free

not blame, nor fire, nor redemption, of all absolvency

Qus: have you heard my “ The Lucifer Song”

Pity not often do I sing my Song….

 

 

 She set upright those tasks not done before

Never more wrong Byatt: ‘ She’s truly for us all.’

Ink that stays, and flows and remains

She of the land with three sages before:

There the wise white three, hummers of melodies

Hemingway, Steinbeck and Faulkner

O` Morrison, Thou art temperate, like the Oracle for sure;

Vain in disgust, I loathe myself: Perhaps,

Could have done this job better, later, still.

 

Critics not chide, nor verse, nor rhyme

Also, have I nothing to gain from Eliot s’il vous plait

 

Teachers teach while preachers preach

All beloved treasured for was Sethe’s teat.

Yet this remains a thought: of the three wise men

Who left without your thought

Takes courage to chide !

Foolish culture that Amrica abided


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