poemeleon

Anna Lena Phillips

"Ain't got no use" is from a series of poems that take their names from songs in the old time tradition. It's been fun to see how the forms of the original songs (couplets, ballads, blues stanzas) interact with the forms of the poems. "Sugar Babe" is sung in couplets, and though "Ain't got no use" is made up of quatrains instead, I think the repeating lines emphasize the rhyme and reach back toward those couplets. "Green Man" is for my father, who is equally happy reading Beowulf and going fishing.

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“Ain’t got no use”

          —“Sugar Babe,” Dock Boggs

Soon you will eat summer peaches and be content;
First, crush rabbit tobacco between your fingers.
To think of him at all is time ill-spent—
Let bark beetles scrawl across a widow-maker.

Crush rabbit tobacco between your fingers
And let its fragrance blur the scent of him.
In bark beetles’ scrawl across a widow-maker
You’ll find no trace remaining of his name.

Let another fragrance blur the scent of him.
Watch fishes’ scales gleam silver sentences—
You’ll find no trace remaining of his name;
Its syllables lift from your mind like mist off ice.

Watch fishes’ scales gleam silver sentences;
Pour vinegar over the songs you sang with him—
Syllables lift from your mind like mist off ice.
“Ain’t got no use” was made to be sung alone.

Pour vinegar over the songs you sang with him.
But before you erase him, send him green persimmons—
“Ain’t got no use” was made to be sung alone—
To turn his mouth inside out: reverse the kiss.

Before you erase him, send him green persimmons.
To remember him at all is time ill-spent—
Turns the mouth inside out: reverses the kiss.
Sit down. Eat summer peaches. Be content.

Green Man

He will not subside,           won't slip into leaf-mold;

he lived in the woods           where my father found him:

a weathered plank           with waiting sockets.

He carried him home           and carved the cedar:

a narrow nose           nestled in red crest

lichen, lips           like his own, and scuppernong

beard; bronze ivy           to crown his brows.

Last, he split walnuts           and wedged each half

into its hollow,           hallowed his face

with cool creek water,           and called him whole.

Then, as he’d promised,           he posted him north.

Dry moss crackled           in the bubble mailer;

wide eyes emerged           to watch me while

I made him a place           in my winter house

and bade him rest.           Now, as I breathe,

a verdant current           fills craven air:

he exhales, his mouth           speaks moss, makes leaf.

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