Felton Eaddy
“Remember Forget Remember Forget”
Felton Eaddy’s poem calls to mind Romare Bearden’s comment that “The memory has a way of embellishing life, but it is forgetfulness that makes life possible.”
Eaddy is the founder, curator and host of Felton Eaddy’s Poetry Kitchen, a poetry venue that regularly features poets and spoken word artists in performance. The Poetry Kitchen is housed at Hammonds House, in the historic West End of Atlanta. Felton is poet, editor, arts administrator, teacher and vocalist. In Atlanta, he is a fierce and constant advocate for poetry and poets.
Eaddy designs and delivers workshops for all ages often incorporating traditional musical instruments, such as the Mbira, kalimba and others, to enhance his performance of poems and stories. He is the author of three books: Bending Over To Pick Up a Snake, Living By the Sword and If I Hold My Tongue. His work is anthologized in The African American Review, Brilliant Flame: Amiri Baraka, Poems, Plays and Politics for the People, Drum Voices and other publications.
Felton Eddy reading his poems at the High Museum's Bearden exhibition on January 3, 2020 at The Art Section live event.
Romare Bearden, Mr. Jeremiah's Sunset Guitar
Remember Forget Remember Forget
Romare Bearden’s Mr. Jeremiah’s Sunset Guitar
they wake soaked most muggy summer mornings
a stale breeze drifts into the bedroom before dawn
unspoken daily sorrow
living for tomorrow on mr. david k’s farm
they wake soaked
the fine line that sliced between bedtime and field time
is broken at 5 a.m. when full throttle rush begins
like the pulsing stubborn strokes of a six-string guitar
as fast as b.b. king could strum lucille’s strings
to sing a blues refrain, or groan or moan of love’s thrill gone
the fine line that sliced between bedtime and field time is broken
is broken at 5 a.m.
“but in the evening, baby, when the sun goes down,
aint it lonesome when your lover ain’t around.”
remember, forget, remember
forget the heat, the sweat--it’s sunset
forget cumulus clouds open for orange sunlight
over the rooftop, a halo, a halo
the red guitar sings mixed dance chords
from our ancestral catalogue of heartbeat rhythms
where everything rests on the ‘one, the ‘one, the ‘one
mrs. lizzie plowed a mule named blue
mrs. lizzie plowed a mule named blue
in sandy fields beside her father’s dirty rice paddy
on great dismal swamp
but old blue, too, rests now in her stable
she stands strongly on three legs; the other limp, eyes shut—as if asleep
no more furrows, no more furrows to plow today
“grandma’s hands soothed the local unwed mother,
grandma’s hands used to hold her face and tell her,
baby grandma understands that you really love that man
put your faith in…”
mrs. lizzie’s bare, black feet, earth grounded
power-charged her soul for the journey forward
from kitchen to field to kitchen to field to pick
pick and shell full green beans
to pick, pick, pull and pack cotton into burlap sacks
soft, thick locks, white gold
cotton grows in straight or curvy rows
grows, grows along long, winding roads
cotton blinding white sea of connected fields
remember, forget, remember
the blues, the blues, blues …I’m on quit you, baby
can get bluer than the deepest blue sky
forget songs of salvation
blue sky will provide the answers, by and by…
“summertime and the living is easy,
so hush little baby don’t you cry.”
remember, forget, remember
forget the heat, the sweat--it’s sunset
forget that mr. jerry was a baby--then--before
hurricane hazel took down the purple grape vines
as a young man, he donned a wide, cobalt-blue brim
learned to pluck his red guitar that summer solstice
it took his mind inside his heart
run after run, he strummed it just for fun
against the steady beat of a bass line
tenor notes, tenor notes bounced harmony into powder blue clouds
remember, forget, remember, forget
remember how the notes swelled
blended with faded train whistle in A sharp
pluck after pluck
northbound train, northbound train
“people get ready”
southbound silver plumes of smoke
floated in the clouds like white doves
“there’s a train a coming”
felt free, almost like home—if only in that moment
--at dusk, orange sun suspended above rooftop
round melodic tones of strings
that only saturday brings
“people get ready there’s a train a comin’, you don’t need no ticket
you just get on board, people get ready….”