'Maumau American Cantos'
Note: What follows is the complete text of Tom Weatherly’s first book, Maumau American Cantos, originally published by Corinth Books in 1970. — David Grundy
MAUMAU AMERICAN CANTOS
by TOM WEATHERLY
CORINTH BOOKS NY, 1970
to carolyn, joel, chip, roi, tom jr, david,
nathaniel, pat pucci and leon siedel
some of these poems have appeared in Noose, The Saint, Simbolo Oscuro, 3C 147, Utter & The World.
cover joan wilentz (poem script by the author)
frontispiece carolyn weatherly.
CONTENTS
autobiography
first monday scottsboro alabama
southern accent
to old elm, in cemetery for confederate dead
court changen race by legal decree
sermonette to jan
roi rogers and the warlocks of space I–IV
salty gal
“say a man has privileges”
your eyes are mirth
to a woman
the Lions Head has a cub in its mouf
SUMP SONGS OF TOM
the 90 lb week
liz bitch
imperial thumbprint
gerrymander
titty blown blue
a proper song, entitled: coonbitch, to polly green
bitch hazel-eyed goddess
war bride
baby, you aint best of the lot
MAUMAU AMERICAN CANTOS
pair-bond
blues for franks wooten
mud water shango
red & yellow fooles coat
tomcat born on railroad
avenue, scottsboro, alabama
to big tom & lucy belle
weatherly, november 3, 1942
dad in european theatre
mom & i living
wif his mom & dad
after the war dad & mom & lil sis & i
moved to the mountain
street home. grade & high school
at george washington carver, split
off to morehouse college at the end of
eleventh grade.
two & half years at morehouse
semester at alabama a & m
then parris island
& dante’s inferno, another semester
at normal, alabama made q frat sic
wif bundle of sticks in hand.
indefinitely suspended from a & m
for publishing The Saint on campus
without permission.
had a vision
entered a.m.e. ministry
assistant pastor of saint pauls scottsboro
& next year pastor of church great grandad
pastored (bishop i.h. bonner had feel for tradition).
had a division:left god mother hooded youth &
the country for new york, lived on streets,
parks, hitchd the states.
dishwasher at hip bagel,
waiter in the mountains, cook at lion’s head
proofreading, copyediting, baking, bellhopping,
camp counselor, dealing, fuckd up in the head.
rantd in the saint marks poetry project, ranting
now in afro-hispanic poets workshop east harlem.
HOLDER OF THE DOUBLE MOJO HAND &
13th DEGREE GRIS-GRIS BLACK BELT.
first monday scottsboro alabama
they dont hold grudges
bridges that dont know cars
are in this century.
they dont know better to
ride over wooden bridges
wagons from shotgun ridges
bridgeport, paint rock, sand mountain
they ride to county courthouse
square to honest trades of
samplers, plowshares, shotguns
bloodhounds, homebrew & gossip.
they come to buy back issues of time
from north alabama ridges
over bridges sherman didnt burn.
I
the tennessee valley was author of
lush full forest animal lives
that thrive on the drive of the rain —
falls to seed shivering with love,
filling the cottonmouth swamps,
where young blurred visionsswam,
shorthaired terrors of inquisition
following dogtrot after father,
questioning his myths.
silver slivers of catfish splash
stink, waters of their ripe breeding.
youth sprawled on grass, idle pole
stuck in mud. the muddy river’s murmur
blues, and the river fowl alive
in god’s dim eye in tennessee.
II
the tennessee valley is full
of swimming holes dammed for commerce.
catfish swim, creaking in detergents.
bastards of the swan/cranes in
urgent circles follow common
low to suds, where no fish splash.
tva built offices where grass was.
dead pond’s beauty screams in the churn
of the bitter turbines whining:
tv’s summer reruns are spun-
out backwaters. fishpoles are totem,
ten pound test weight lines hang slack.
to old elm, in cemetery for confederate dead
The pine fragrance,
the magnolia graveyard,
surrounds a gnarled, old elm …
among conferences of silence,
honors heaped upon dead men,
it stands, to document the wind,
not their deeds …
leaves,
fall,
journalistic season
past historic years:
listen to elm bark in passage
of dixie landed gentry,
it makes no gesture of sound …
round its trunk children
chant their games
over buried roots.
Elm roots grow through graves,
neither desecrate nor revere,
crack the skulls open
to brace against the wind.
owl watch, perched in what dark
limbs silent swaying
with the wind.
“South African Judge
Rules Family Is White, New York Times
Not Colored.” April 30, 1967, p. 86
court changen race by legal decree
worn it is a gesture
as skin, suit won in south
african court i’d be proud
declared white in new jersey
or georgia. proud america
experience limitd
to these states
i’m in for traveln.
whereas the greek states
beautiful the gods the heroes
if a jigaboo dont spill milk
coming he spill it going.
these are like homer’s blues
themes. back humpd under
magnolia writn
life of the great black
wasp. state
oracles divine, witch docs
sprinkle bone dust
americus mojo
i stay here wearing thin
suitd for the climate.
I
i write it splash
down
in the roots of water
expanding circles, a leaf
dropd.
my vision see me thru
raw glass
raised to obvious past
survivals: icy pond
in summer as that frieze
the leaf
in ice, hard circles
photograph of april’s moon
tides stopd from wavering
weak
strong
my thots stretch
round your body. that water
evaporates
II
your slow back going down
grizzly in your thighs
growling teeth.
owl perch in cypress
swoop down. claws. snatch.
is a slow black form it
is down and down goes it
to.
something dies
in spring. muffled drama
of wings down
down
down.
dawn.
roi rogers and the warlocks of space
(for ‘the world’ proof of my insanity)
I
“the dominant theme of
the material
takened as a whole
appeals
to prurient interest”
as your new deal
that it is human
beast, that is we all
is what we believe
is where publick
folks lie.
“thomas, we’re near
the toilet
if you’re worth it.”
we are
we
an era
calmly
measured
learnt
wholly
cosmo
politan, airconditioned
soul slang
“who urge no less than music”
accept a-1 sauce.
roi rogers and the warlocks of space
II
one fact
not erect
moot fact
she grab
of me, woman takes
the question. o ezra
the koran has lanie poos
name inscribed in it, in gelded
silver ink. critics
book the book printd
on fasces & fingerprint
fort fantasy
(mended wind image today,
rites by the ganges
roi rogers and the warlocks of space
III
hadassah leavenburg
baby you’re selectd
marry me in my pre
fascist period. why
because i
dig yo fat
thighs
rumpd ass
bald domed tits
cunt that’s a live
home to huge beasts.
we be fuckn kosher
’til i find what
shine means.
roi rogers and the warlocks of space
IV
o mother, wild, driven black
held restless tomcat
balld into your womb.
a wombat electd to big
tom’s wife. a worship freed
november 1942.
know my dark is
huge as alarms
the sea, waiting at night
crouching.
the apartment is two rooms.
no boudoir for you.
if i forget your self,
if you must remember it.
sit to the window. watch red-white-blue
smokestacks on avenue D.
steam & smoke
changes. a small room.
claws & horns in to conflict
at the waterhole/at the saltlick.
these panes may be walls
from the outside.
… & come back
into me, opening
& darkly smiling. one season’s
change from a nondescript.
our bedroom is two windows.
“say a man has privileges” /
for carol mothner
i know how yr hard
to hear friends talk
to yr ear
is no dogs
nose, no cat eye.
it is setting to write
wet paw, sandpaper tongue
in welcome wagon town
what of it?
& its so, determine
not to speak out
write it down nor appear
in public forums
run it down in public
the charge the media
feeds back to my & your craw
: sweetest thing i ever saw
him say to me, “melissa
your skinny bones
knock on my door when sun
gone down.”
/from Joel Oppenheimer
your eyes are mirth
trauma. i am he,
born out of the laughter
of your sleep. your
sleep closed to me
traps me inside it. waking
in the morning of joy.
i am ignorant and stretch
my shape …
and you awakening
pull me close.
for denise levertov
can’t say it’s not
a language that makes you
repeat its singing
for you i groan
thru subway stations
avenue B to avenue D
it is beginning
it goes down
thru centuries
dawn to eve
that movement past
tense & strain.
it’s not father who groans
but the son remembering
mother, a snatch
back to the beginning
not the warm hole now.
the Lions Head has a cub in its mouf
joel o & pete hamill tell me how
the windmills they defeatd
during th 50s,
corso is mad but theyre drunk tonite
i dont listen feel th splinters
or pick them out & glue ’em together.
whats in a doggie bag
for nathaniel oppenheimer
joel is enrolld
at berlitz school languages
learn to speak dog
3 lessons he talks
to dogs fluent in their language
practices at the Lions Head
what is the world coming
to talk to dogs.
i met this kissie
frog last nite with blonde hair …
(for sam & ezra)
keep book the cash
move figures, why
bank tellers stay late
keep book
the figures dont
lie cheat steal.
this is the first & great
commandment throw up
poker chips, the money
changers out, the hands.
the phone is bugged is
registered in yr name
there is the trick to
tear the yellow pages in half.
for tom campion
i’m not the gentle
honorable man of collar
speaks from scottsboro
interested to read that
sociological inverse
relationship, lynchd
& the price of cotton
& not speak in fronts, follown
my life in your freed dom
given what in me the test, the shit
is a standard F A A 2 pound pigeon
is shuffle down the buffalo gone west
we grease on their bones, we going west
“Breaks time, as dancers
“From their own Musicke when they stray / lay awake
“and just can’t eat a bite, she used to
“be my rider.”
this is a white
world dont give damn shit
to me boy. is whether live
or dead black is not
white nor is life or death
neither living nor dying
speak under breath curse the
skin you give man mother
goddamn the street full
outside where there is white
tomorrow is today the black
walk down fifth avenue, hawkbill
in my hand.
for jerrold & lightning
& howling
no man how hard
you fuckn try you cant
you aint snow white. no
black light black surburbs
& no kite rainbow out of
you head in 1940
smoke smack
lightning jus get you high.
“Ich bin so dumm, du bist so dumm,
wir wollen sterben gehen, kumm!”
Galgenlieder
Christian Morgenstern
‘i’m so dumb, you’re so dumb,
let’s go kick the bucket, comeon!’
TW
love is all right, but shit
loaded for bare
necessities “ive done more
for you baby
than yr daddys ever done”
walk on the tops of my shoes.
you hump like a horn
thru traffic.
“done more for you baby
than yr daddys ever done.”
a proper song, entitled: coonbitch, to polly green
for mike allen, a markd saint
traveln salesmen pump my joint
collective farm wife, make this
killn floor stern, killn deck
aft document:
roi jones
in the year of our lady
did you not write
on page 17
“old envious blues feeling”
the hound diggings where
ole bean dug up a pewter raccoon
our roots too deep to go down
or own to bunny
who’ll buy my violets
i can’t get started.
the peckers ride off
lookout mountain to some pass.
cut them off at possibly
possibly mosby is the posse
the marshal clan &
chases the treed muse, the flower of
backdoor.
my lady bring me
ten young virgins.
my lady bring to my black dick your white cunt
no treed rhetoric for those hounds at me
fuckn commit to our bedroom not bullshit horns
or cattle prods.
my lady bring me possums
suckn to your belly
four of them bitch hazel-eyed.
& this is my lady.
gerlinde the virgin wif spear
remembers
german children deprived of fireplaces
birch logs snap
hot cinders at us.
mount moriah deacon AMEN
beardless strong
speaks nothing to his own dark
sisters wif thighs like jewels
what the songs i remember meant
where songs sung
mr mason mr dixon
baby, you aint best of the lot
(a purim song, first degree)
leroi rides again is freed
man shuffling home to
read the good book WASHD IN THE BLOOD
BURNING SPEAR. hadassah knows
theres a pogrom tonite & always
an eclipse. hadassah went dressn up
royally:suh haman erectd the stake.
HANG HIM ON IT.
the saddle is empty of
the accuser.
1
intersection
honking sirens approach at,
searchlights
honk out
FRANK
kill you dipshit fagot
motherfuckers.
& frank never know
how to outguess stupidity
the blood, the mean
woodenframe the coptic site
blues
the mans honking
dont come
at my door.
CANTO 2
the yellow brick road
for trane
we trespass the blues
hanging outhouses in picture frames
a record heard
live performance
blow easily
forgotten phrase. we bleep
dont read music. listen
dont move dont you remember
saxophones never die.
titty toad down
remember, read scratchy
sheet music, croak
in the backyard.
CANTO 3
the issue, the blood, is heavy
dearest big tom & lucy belle
they mebbe come suck
at me the fan, & fuck up the current
modern jawless vertebrates
lampreys
new york citys dont hold their
mouf right anthony travia
or the estonian minister of
cultural affairs to the U.N.
southern politics aint got
less probably mores of the region
flavor: big jim folsom
the man in bama
forkd a chaw the cracker get his
mouf around wouldnt choke.
now you teachers share —
crop reared me, now the sirens
honk at my hymns to malcolm …
what the man … did to stoke
fire beneath his black
skin fuses his soul the thing, not in ideas
my poetics a sociology independent
of the results
bullets in mississippi
election returns in vietnam
the token
NEGRO even i have to include
in that
nostril on top the head
the laterally placed eye, behind
which are the gill openings
dip shit mothafuckn blood
suckers, stuff the ballot, drain
the treasury, increase taxes
so what honest hard work bring
you eat out the horn
& hardart dairy queen.
as you see yourself the language is,
your politics aint the moral.
CANTO 4
gullfish
what is black
in me is not like white
you thot enuf
to say what we were
brought up to be
our parents we are not.
you no souf carolina gal
tell me i bring no
chocolate to an occupied town …
is another war i’m involved
in will do
speak of my
self respect
for myself
no success, the score is
success, the ritual put down
all the blues gone west
mongers of the world unite!
CANTO 5
coon fire
the landscape was
musical cartoons.
tattoo the sound of
blood on my eardrums
taut, the tenses
i were wolfish to dance
dance the half romance
the language
& violence, music to
dance to
violate the progress:
rust at the muscle.
“Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!”
CANTO 6
americus mojo
brown stone woman honkn outside,
my honeydew rider.
o deliver me my lady, tom
reconstructd tom, dont ride no more fronts for the lily
BLACKJACK PERSHING
THE HIGH KITE SUCK YOUR
BONES.
east fifth street sings TPF out my ears the morning
you’re not here
i sat up all nite with the kittens packn my leaving
poems
3 corner box got me my lady
i’ve gone down on your body broken open in
remembrance
my front door is your front door, no backdoor lily
as a black gals pussy moans waycross georgia.
CANTO 7
first thesis
for m.l.k., jr.
aim get your sights & its sound
in abstract or journal movements
to a peace settlement
old western fancy
dude shot my man
dead,
precious lord blow off
theres no willy in th blues theres no you.
CANTO 8
valley stream carol
summer returnd 3 days. winter is slow.
cant concentrate where thot enters here goes
head bodyless LOOK OUT TOM POOL DOOS
GET YOU
freight trains gone in last round house. home
fret no music made, no drama, shiftless
out of head gear, disorient blues takes firm
control these days keep me cool enuf collect
my thots my fingers (your river hips flow away)
swim wif th current holdn breath.
east fifth street children dont fear broken glass
come rescue me losing touch system
reality, blue singn me wif his bad mouf.
them mushrooms th stink of pool doos pussy
biography of joseph smith on my desk
life & times change again look old
things pewter wif designs on ’em made in england
unicorn products limited go lovely
to th kick hills. my tongue is blue any form you wish
come bird fish worm sing swim
loosen th black belt.
CANTO 9
lucy belle
d b a rider
ginger hips bred
you said
captain easy
go down on
river hips
new orleans
louisiana
where my mouf sings
a goat song
(th chorus line.)
CANTO 10
wooten
th black hat stingy brim
on th street you live
one more day wearing it angel
enuf so you live. enuf.
devil lights up th day knowing
which hat to wear in his
green avenue stampers above franklin
going downtown, th robins
by stuyvesant, nostrum, utica avenue.
over wireless ‘robins nest’ slim harpos
blue thang. do your thang blue sea
cop the reefer ride away
th highs translate literally
railway carmens soft white underbelly.
CANTO 11
east corinthian
village period piece hettie
cohen got her jones, wiped th colostrum
off th mouf of his first poems
days down wif it.
east fifth street kikes have retreatd to
maw of long-guyland, few ulanower cong.
a saturday holdn act from soap opera kahn.
lissen mama right -handed -wingd
i’m head tomcat round this spray
net weight in th morning
c-wt. & eighty th motherfuckn all
limitd to th east side & fillmore music
gem spa & i cant spare a dime.
my poems & lil tomcat in your belly
teethn on raw blood too are down wif it
(totem is in th spirit house) th red-
bone hunger.
what is heart
is untransplantable
is not the house
we move in, home to.
caroline your ears in the wind
hear me
speak to home.
House of the Lifting of the Head
let me open mama your 3 corner box.
yes open mama your 3 corner box.
i have a black snake baby his tongues hot.
you shake round those curves baby dont quite make the grade.
you shake round those curves baby dont make the grade.
man come home tired dont want no lemonade.
we been blowing spit bubbles baby in each others mouf.
we been blowing spit bubbles baby in each others mouf.
burst all them bubbles mama norf cold like the souf.
let me be your woodpecker mama tom do like no pecker would.
let me be your woodpecker mama tom tom do like no pecker would.
open your front door baby black dark come home for good.
a big muddy daddy my daddys gris-gris to the world.
i’m a big muddy daddy daddys gris-gris to the world.
got a mojo chop for sweet black belt girl.
daddys a river & my mamas shore is black.
daddys a river mamas shore is black.
flood coming mama you cant keep it back.
lightning in my eyes mama thunder in your soul.
theres lightning in my eyes mama thunder in your soul.
i’m a river hip daddy mama dig a muddy hole.
a bouquet for my lady
yellow ladys
bedstraw. white ladys bedstraw.
3 faces under a hood.
love in a mist. smoke of the earth.
old mans beard. devil in a bush.
wild madder. sun spurge.
good night at noon.
violet-coloured bottle. egyptian
lotus water. phisick spurge.
tom weatherly
hato rey 1969
Edited by David Grundy