Witnessing: Discussing Imani Tolliver’s Poems

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Sorry that this post is late. I had a family emergency that temporally relocated me to the remote world of Sutter County, which is where dial-up Internet still exists, but not at my family’s house. The readings where wonderful and kept sane this weekend. I will see you all tomorrow. 

--April

There is something uncontrolled, yet calculated in Tolliver’s poems. The voice of the speaker wanders and wonders on, often associatively, and almost excessively. However, in each poem there is a shift that brings the reader back to the beginning or leaves us at new place or what seems like a new place. The structure is not completely circular, I do not know what to call it, and perhaps its shape is cylindrical. The best way I can describe her poems is as a movement that defies singularity

As a reader I feel off balance, disarmed, and aligned with the speakers questions—with the speakers experience. And while the speaker’s voice is not my own, or part of my existence, somehow between the language and the craft of the narrative there is an intimacy created that disarms and lets the reader in the poem. For example, the second person being addressed in “Mudcloth” is never named; however, what is clear that the reader is not being invited into the poem through the “you” whom the speaker is addressing:

It was you outside the poetry reading

last wednesday night

you at the doorway

and although i was self conscious and paying attention

when i saw you there

baby tied to your chest

with mudcloth, with care

i opened the door

i let you in (1-9)

There are too many details that indicate that the reader is not the you in the poem. Yet at the same time we are in the poem—the intimacy of the language and the long narrative invites us in, and we become part of the experience.

Rather than being located in the body of the speaker or other subjects in Trolliver’s poems, the reader becomes drawn into the poem, or the body of the poem, as a personal witness to what has happened, what is happening, and what may yet happen. We can see this in “The Fire This Time. Remembering April 1992” as the speaker shares her experience from the L.A. Riots:

I remember saying

boo

to a volvo on the westside

filled with frightened faces. (1-4)

We become a witness to her witnessing those scared white faces she is cut off from, and we continue to witness the speaker’s internal wondering about how those white girls see her:

boo

and I became their worst fear

and what  must that fear look like

a skit made of watermelon rinds

my face blackened with coal

each braid secured with tiny little white bows my head tilted to one questioning angle (10-16)

Through the speaker’s recollection we see her, and we see how she sees the white girls seeing her. We are a witness of her experience and questioning, but we are always separate from the speaker. This creates interest, tension, and a tone of authenticity, which gestures outward, to the reader, without forcing the reader into the speaker’s body. And while we do not embody the speaker’s experience, we cannot turn away.