Second Tribute to Morrison

Second Tribute to Morrison

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

© 2006 T.Prabhakar. All Rights Reserved.