Poems of Humor & Protest

150 USD

Date

1954

Category

Poetry

Description

Many Poet's-Poets are marred by a certain stuffiness, given to flaunting their erudition, to dangling allusion-heavy Rabbit Holes of Joycean heft before the reader. Patchen, on the other hand, could not be more different: his existence as a "Poet's Poet" has nothing to do with the sort of lofty, hermetic altitudes at/from which many-a bespectacled-Modernist wrote. It has nothing to do with the footnotes at the end of The Waste Land, nothing to do with the cornucopia of references which gild Pound's Cantos. Patchen is a man whose inviting, accessible verse is characterized by a swaggering ebullience and distinctive emotional intelligence that many find enchanting.

This copy is a First Edition, First Printing, with all points indicated in Cook. One of 1000 copies letterpress printed in London for CLB in San Francisco during July, 1956 with white paper wraparound label pasted onto blue wrapper.

Excerpt

I DON'T WANT TO STARTLE YOU but they are going to kill most of us I knew the General only by name of course. I said Wartface what have you done with her? I said You Dirtylouse tell me where she is now? His duck-eyes shifted to the Guard. All right, Sam. 1 saw a photograph of the old prick’s wife on the desk; Face smiling like a bag of money on a beggar’s grave. Who is that fat turd I said — as hit me with his jewelled fist. While his man held me he put a lighted cigarette on my eyelid. I smelt the burning flesh through his excellent perfume. On the wall it said Democracy must be saved at all costs. The floor was littered with letters of endorsement from lib- erals And intellectuals: “your high ideals,” “liberty,” “human jus- tice.” Stalin’s picture spotted between Hoover’s and a group-shot of the DAR. I brought my loiee up suddenly and caught him in the nuts. A little foam triclded from his flabby puss. All right, Sam. They led me into a yard and through a city of iron cells. I saw all the boys: Lenin, Trotsky, Nin, Pierce, Rosa Luxem- burg. . . Their eyes were confident, beautiful, unafraid. . . . We came finally to an immense hall protected by barbed wire And machineguns: Hitler, Benny Mussolini, Roosevelt and all The big and little wigs were at table, F.D.’s arm around Adolf, Chiang Kai-shek’s around the Pope, all laughing fit to kill. As soon as a treaty was signed, out the window it went; But how they fumbled at each other under the table! I snatched up a menu; Grilled Japanese Soldier On Toast Fried Revolutionaries a la Dirty Joe Roast Worker Free Style Hamstrung Colonial Stew, British Special Gassed Child’s Breast, International Favorite Wine list— Blood 1914, ’15, ’17, *83, ’34, ’36, ’40 etc. So much fresh meat 1 thought! A butchers’ holiday. . . The General paused to enjoy the floorshow: On a raised platform little groups of people stood. Flags told their nationality, orators told them what to do. As the bands blared they rushed at each other with bayonet The dead and dying were dragged out and others brought on. Sweat streamed from the orators; the musicians wobbled crazily. The Big Shots were mad with joy, juggling in their seats like monkeys. And they never get wise the General said as we moved on. Out in the air again. . . . A line of petty officials and war-pimps waited before the door. As we approached they drew aside respectfully to let the General in. I heard a woman moaning and I knew what they wanted there. Now do you know what we’ve done with her the General said. To go mad or to die. . . They forced me to watch as the General went up to her and Her eyes were looking at me.