The Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton 1965-2010 (BOA Editions, Ltd. 2012) by Lucille Clifton (June 27, 1936 – Feb. 13, 2010). Like Zen koans, these poems, in their universal insight, provide wisdom for the ages. Her oft recited “Won’t You Celebrate with Me” concludes in a finely tuned, hard-won pronouncement and invitation:
come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
At Alice Turiyasangitananda Coltrane’s Elevation Service on January 27, 2007, I stood by a stream in the rain and recited “Blessing the Boats (at St. Mary’s)” in honor of her friend:
may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that
When I spoke with Ms. Clifton later and told her about the offering, she said that that poem had often been read at funerals and at weddings though it’s original impulse had not much to do with either and yet. . . Like great balm, I apply these poems and heal and hold my head up high. There is always something to contemplate, one unending “Aha” moment, a consecrated timelessness as in a later poem, “God Bless America”:
You don’t know the half of it, like the old folks used to say
but the half of it is what I do know
What I don’t know is the other
buck studies (Fence Books, 2016) by Douglas Kearney. This sixth title from the font-master and word-wizard has me pulling down the window shades. With a flashlight, I crouch down in preparation for a syntactical and typographical journey of the highest order. Characters like “Stagger Lee” and Brer Rabbit are rearranged in the service of “now”. I find myself always skipping and running to catch up with Kearney’s consummate re-profaning of the profane yielding a wholly new and necessary ferocity. High-heel shoes just are enough to get ahead in this race for self and for race in an unflinchingly dangerous time.
pigs prey to piggishnesses. get ate from rooter to tooter.
and then we became (City Lights Books, 2016) by devorah major. Four sections of this long-awaited volume: “spirit”, “other selves”, “fragile”, “whole” reveal a writer and life experiencer at the height of her poetic powers. Whenever I become too self-satisfied in intellectual games, I find my heart upended by these impassioned verses of humanity and what it means to be fully alive and present. From “nommo‑how we come to speak” to “war memories”, this former San Francisco Poet Laureate and worldly cosmonaut handles politics, war, and love in equal measure as the best poets of the people do. Pablo Neruda. Bob Kaufman, June Jordan. Wanda Coleman. Ears to the ground and eyes to the sky.
James Baldwin: Collected Essays (Library of America, 1998) by James Baldwin (Aug. 2, 1924 – Dec. 1, 1987). When the “next James Baldwin” was said to have been found, I felt compelled to return to “James Baldwin, The Previous” with the belief that this literary goldmine had not even begun to be fully understood and appreciated. In being fully oneself, the world and relations therein necessarily become changed. Fearlessness is required. These essays are as prophetic as they are timeless:
No more water/
Fire next time
Freedom, true freedom does indeed exact a cost and comes with a price. The toll only becomes clear in the doing. Every sentence an act of bravery and sacrifice, steps made and taken before our very own. I believe.
Phebus Etienne. Photograph by Rachel Eliza Griffiths © 2006
Chainstitching by Phebus Etienne (1966- March 31, 2007). Phebus was a Haitian-American born poet who died of a heart attack at age 41. This, her first manuscript of poems remains unpublished. At least a poem of hers was once chosen by fellow Haitian American writer Edwidge Danticat, for the Beacon Best of 2000. At least a few others made it into literary journals. I check the internet very so often to see if it’s finally happened, if her friends have kept their promise, have at long last released their copies of her manuscript out into the world to a wider audience. It will be a decade next year since her passing. Every once in a while I dream of Phebus and of reading her book. Once I even read far enough for her to look up and say that yes, a book would be nice but remember, “Don’t sweat the small stuff”.