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The Poetry
of Gary Green
Typically Gary Green's poetry has been the
lyrics of his songs, but beyond the 36 songs recorded for Folkways
Records (and currently part of the Smithsonian Collection) there are
hundreds of other Gary Green poems, published and not-published..
The short collection here includes his epic lyrical poem "The
Poet, The Prophet, The Writer, and The Musican" as well as four
other non-song poems from his pen (or typewriter or word
processing program). |
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The Poet, The
Prophet, The Writer, and The Musician
I
As was born the poet to limner and carol . . .
was wombed the prophet to contemplate diurnal.
Gestation formed the writer to scroll and anal . . .
and bore the musician to psalm and yodel.
Each must cast alone while on a ship with eleven more .
. .
but each must know that sodality is the ship's only shore.
From the house of concord--a monastery of breath--
each was sent--an antithesis of death.
While stepping high on lamenter's hill
plunders Bereftos--carnate of desperation's will
Plotting and scheming to forge battlefield
with anticipation of the artists' yield.
II
It was the poet for whom Bereftos first laid snare.
And it was the bard of bloom who first drew his gaff
To crypt the demon on veracity's behalf
With cantos of beauty, of homage and prayer.
But the spectre was vicious with snarl and gnash;
And he ripped skald's flesh veining to metaphorical soul
To slither and gnaw then tunnel and mole
Through the poet's heart to tatter and slash.
The deeper the monster's bite; the truer the poet's
quill
finding in the wrath of abhorrence the aliment of voluptions' song.
With dissecting phrases of sensual lyric, the battle was
scarred and long.
But the fangs of despair and clutch of megrim make no match for
concord's will.
Thus Bereftos fell, though not to death;
But to plunder and vamp until choler's next contest
And curst the poet who brought glimmer to black's
hatechest.
And the poet tread on to idyll and limn of starshine and breath.
III
Conundrum in speech to ponder and foretell
Savoring and sharing in every life's hell;
Feeling and bleeding in passion and pain
Touching and kissing and tilling life's grain.
Leaving signs of hope or utter of cheer
Forecast of gloom or tale of tea;
"That which is spoken is that which is real--
Change or salvation is within thy own will."
Bereftos lay deep as the prophet drew near
Assuming the form of a coffin--the sibyl's only fear . . .
Death not so much the fear as absence of life . . .
Locked away from human glory or strife.
This weakness alone did the oracle show;
So Bereftos the Cunning fashioned the casket as blank as milk and
snow.
And the four walls he sprang around in midst of the
prophet's stride
To banish and void him from the world outside.
Confident of his conquest, the monster paraded proud
To his refuge of darkness to tailor a shroud
And cover the prophet's place of rest
Then return to his sanctum to plot the next contest.
But far below the coffin's bier
Lived the prophet in vacuumed air.
Meditation in the empty gave form in the white;
The prophet again became a ray of light.
All things then are kept visions inside
To be called forth when needed to guide.
"That which is spoken is that which is real,"
Said the prophet, "Change or salvation is within thy own will."
IV
From unseen refuge veiled in shadowy reflection,
The penman assessed Bereftos in each battle and competition.
So he knew the monster's tactics and style
And he knew the creature's ways to beguile.
The demon had already begun to build snare,
When the writer teased from his shade to catch the monster's stare.
Though his own mesh was still now woven, Bereftos took bait
And followed the plotmaster in a rage of hate.
Dulled by avarice for the writers' demise
And weakened by lost battles from other piercing eyes,
the monster schemed victory, while lost in daze
Following his enemy deeper into maze.
Fired with foresight of bagging his game
And clawing and chewing and burning every remain,
Bereftos followed deeper, long after he was lost--
His mind miles ahead in dreamt holocaust.
The writer doubled back and rewove horror's net,
Lacing each strand of greed, doubt, hate and regret
To loop the holes in Bereftos' unfinished snare
And lead the monster to his own trap there.
A tired monster, his cunning worn,
Followed the scribe, never hearing the angel's horn.
Then the writer paused and Bereftos leapt at his prey.
But his own net sprung and blocked his way.
The monster fell with howl and groan
And the writer watched it all . . . then left alone.
Bereftos fought, though worn and tattered;
a noble fight with escape all that mattered.
V
A battered Bereftos eluded his own enmesh,
but in his heart pounded his hate/hunger for flesh.
And he stumbled and rambled bitter blind,
His oath of calamity, waste and ruin guiding his mind.
It was by chance that the musician just happened to be
Fretting his lute, resting under that very tree
That the killer had chosen as a spot to repose
And respired his strength to rematch his foes.
The musician's yodel mixed with the lute's trill
To bring the walls of concord--driving insanity to the demon of
desperation's will.
The weakened giant forgot his mission of death.
The closer he moved to the minstrel's song
the deeper entwined became his right and wrong,
Till concord ruled and desperation fell
Without a carnate to hold its spell.
VI
The musician's path of psalm and yodel
Led him to a fork where the writer would wait.
And together they talked of their conquests of hate.
Then they met with the poet, who told of the same in limn and carol.
The artists strolled together, though each was alone,
Until they reached the prophet's crypt--near Bereftos' tattered
throne.
And the prophet arose and was born again--
Foretelling the future and of things that had been.
The temple of concord then was ruled by the four
Who spread to dust and lived in the wind
To ride in time and spark in the eyes of every friend;
To keep sentinel against another carnate from Bereftos' door.
Alone, no one artist could have brought the demon's defeat--
But united, concord's house was complete.
so they spread their souls to roam with skies
To fall when needed on myriad eyes.
Each cast alone with ten thousand more . . .
But each knowing that sodality is the ship's only shore.
So given to cosmos with souls division
Walk The Poet, the Prophet, The Writer and The Musician.
©
1976, 1977, 1990, and 2011 Gary Green |
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Elvis On Velvet
I pullet out
of De-troit late one cold snowy night
Gonna make Chicago long before the morning light.
I'd been on the road about two hours or so when my stomach
started to whine.
I toold off of I-94 at Kal-a-ma-zoo
Looking for a shake and a fry or two.
Then through a window I saw this girl working beneath the "have-it-
your-way" sign.
She was the cutest little thing in this whole land,
Flipping those hamburgers in the air and
Chewing gum, singing "Don't Be Cruel" and twisting her hips and
playing with a "TCB" ring.
I leaned across the counter to get a better view.
She looked at me and I whispered, "I love you."
She said, "don't even think of messing with me hoss, 'cause I date
The King!"
I see Elvis on velvet everywhere I drive.
They say the King is dead; but I know he's alive.
He shaved off his sideburns and hung up his blue-suede shoes
And he's living with a burger queen from Kalamazoo
For the next few hours I listened to her tragic tale
Of a rock and roll King whose life went to hell.
Surrounded by love, money, fame; everywhere he went people
worshiped his name.
She said, "he gave all his money to Lisa Marie
After he faked his own death just to live with me."
How they moved to an apartment in Kalamazoo and he spent his
days playing video games.
Well their money started to run short before too long;
Seems there's less hard cash in burgers than rock & roll songs.
So he started painting color portraits of himself to sell on the
side of
the road.
I see Elvis on velvet everywherre I drive.
They say the King is dead; but I know he's alive.
He shaved off his sideburns and hung up his blue-suede shoes
And he's living with a burger queen from Kalamazoo
Well I didn't believe her story anymore than you.
Especially the part about the apartment in Kalamazoo.
And I headed on west till I say one of those road-side picture
things.
Selling those paintings was a man with a curled upper lit.
His legs turned out and sort of bowed and shook from the hip.
So when you see roadside pictures come round, buy one for the
burger queen and remember . . . "Long Live The King."
I see Elvis on velvet everywhere I drive.
They say the King is dead; but I know he's alive.
He shaved off his sideburns and hung up his blue-suede shoes
And he's living with a burger queen from Kalamazoo
. . . and Judge Crater, and Glen Miller, and Jim Morrison, and Jimmy
Hoffa. |