Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Now Available - Come Wewoka & Diary of Medicine Flower

I am happy to announce that Come, Wewoka: Poems on the Trail of Tears has been released with its companion piece, Diary of Medicine Flow: Cherokee Aphorisms in both paperback (ISBN: 1438227639) and kindle (ASIN: B001A7HMT4) formats.

The Trail of Tears left a deep mark on the Cherokee nation, a mark that still ripples through the descendants of that culture. It should also leave an indelible mark on the current conscience. Come, Wewoka: Poems on the Trail of Tears is a collection of heartfelt reflections on Cherokee culture during those days and after. Diary of Medicine Flower - Cherokee Aphorisms is prose-poetry reflecting Cherokee views on modern life. Together, these two works provide a sense of the vibrancy of Cherokee culture that is far from faded, but in well worth the sampling.

excerpt from Come, Wewoka

Old Man Tokorei

They gave old man Tokorei
A blanket and a bottle.
The bottle made him warmer than the blanket,
But they also robbed him of his woman.
She would make him warmer still.

To Carlisle, they sent his children,
To make him colder when they came to know him not.
But now, this desert sun in Arizona
Burns his skin warmest yet.

Thank the hawk he still has the warm bottle.

excerpt from Diary of Medicine Flower

Prairie Courting

Fair is the maiden I pursue on the knoll. Just ahead of me she stays, knowing I watch, but keeping her distant. I stop and gaze, tilting my head to catch the breeze, my crow feather shown best when blown apart. I feel her smile, although I only see her back. I know she has etched me in her heart. I take a step backwards. She one forward, and I know that tomorrow on this knoll we will be within touching distance, although we will not touch.

Edward C. Patterson

Friday, May 16, 2008

Coming Soon from the Pen of E.C. Patterson

Late May 2008

In preparation, for release on Kindle and Paperback in late May is my new volume of poems and aphorisms inspired by my Cherokee experience.

Come, Wewoka: Poems on the Trail of Tears, is a poetic recounting of the forced removal of the Cherokee from Georgia to Oklahoma Territory.

The Diary of Medicine Flower: Cherokee Aphorisms is a suite of daily thoughts from a modern man with a Native retrospective.

Together, in a single volume, these form my tribute to my Cherokee heritage.

Medicine Flower
Nv-wo-di A-gi-lv-s-gi

Late June 2008

Surviving an American Gulag is a first-hand look at the treatment of gay men in the military during the Viet-nam era, as presented by a soldier who lived through every torturous, life-shaping moment of it.

Private Winslow Gibbs learns the hard way that the draft has brought him in conflict with more than Uncle Sam's enemies. Having failed to get with the program during training, he is removed to the Special Training Unit, a place designed to break and chuck out those who do not come up to the Army's standard for cannon fodder. It proves to be a reckoning point for those deemed misfits. What Gibbs finds here, however is beyond anyone's reckoning.

I'll keep my readers posted on its progress.
Also, I have been doing a Guest Blog spot on Writer's Help Blog. Come Visit. The topic is:
Some Thoughts on Revising a Novel

Edward C. Patterson

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Step up to the Counter for another Sample

I know you can sample the Kindle version on my poetry collection, The Closet Clandestine, and soon you will be able to Search Inside the Book for the paperback version, but with so many morsels within this work, and it being a sunny Wednesday in May, I thought I'd toss another free sample on the counter to be tasted. This tidbit is from one of the seven books in the collection - from The Festival at Thebes, but was published in a poetry anthology The Poet back in 1976. I mention that because . . . well, that will be self-evident:

Atop the Twin Towers

From the top of the world of man
Steel arched and graced by girder,
I see the river race,
The placid calm of the market of mammon,
Coming afar about the island’s tip,
Seeking trade in cargos gold,
For precious agate, amber rare,
Through old Palmyra’s gates,
Dawning over Hecatompolis.
Mighty mistress on the flow,
Raising high the towers two,
Receive the caravans of man.
Bactria sends the dragon steeds;
Silken skeins from Serica come,
Glass as precious as your steel
Weighed in balance oft’ maintained
By the greatness of your name.
Honor in the holy trade
In unhampered, commerce free,
Has now come to they scepter’s twain
And past unto your dynasty.

Note: This Poem was written in 1976 and published in the Poet

Monday, May 5, 2008

Poetry is Not Your Cup of Tea, you Say? Then imbibe some Moonshine!

It always surprises me how author's can attract readership with novels and non-fiction, and chase that readership away with poetry. Yet, at the core of every good writer, stands The Poet. Now, I don't want to flatter myself by saying that my core is poetic and, ergo I am a good writer. That is a task for others. What I do have, like every author, is one or two volumes of poetry that flicker beneath a bushel, yearning to burn through.

In my case, I have seven such volumes, collected into The Clandestine Closet: a queer steps out; a gay man's rutter to strive in this world of differences. This collection is now available for consumption (desert or side-dish - your choice), as fickle verses and lyric pieces that have always hounded my heels like a fox in autumn; the little niptails. As for being tea - I don't think so. Strong coffee mayhap, or a blend of sasparilla and moonshine. Some of these little pepperills are a roustabout lot, with bold statements and a call to arms, Hallelujah. Others are reflections or sensual flesh portraits, hot sizzle and ou la la. In any case, not one of them portends to the Darjeeling.

Here's a sample from Volume Seven: Songs - Not Just Survival:


Cultural Warriors

We are culture’s warriors,
Raising our voices through the land;
Teaching with our measures,
And our hearts tied to songs;
Hymns that wrap the people
In heaven’s coverlet.
We are the beacons for the century,
To the youth and fiery angels,
Leading our pavilions
Into the world’s pavilions.
We follow the drum bangers,
The locust-eaters and prophets;
Beyond the tabernacles,
Into the hearth places,
The fountain places
Where the sanctuary stones weep
To understand our strains.

The frost heart melts.
The statue head quivers.
The ignorant understand
As we, the cultural warriors
Bring the beacons of truth to the night’s cold misery
Leaving in our wake
A clear and starry dawn.


There's 180 more like that, if your soul can sustain them. Still, it never ceases to puzzle me why prose writers are ashamed to display their marrow . . . every once in a while. Naked I will stand, if your soul can sustain it.