out of body

I remember seeing Lucille Clifton read to a packed audience under a tent in the rain. She moved slowly to the microphone, and when she got there looked out at everyone and smiled the biggest, most genuine smile I'd seen in a long time. She laughed, delighted to be there, delighted to be reading. This was at the time that she knew she was dying, and there was something about watching her that felt so rooted in the present moment, the joy of reading her words to an audience hanging onto every second while at the same time looking out into the darkness beyond. Her body was weak; she sat instead of stood and read only a few poems, but did so with that sing-song voice booming and a pleasure in how these poems were once again "coming to her."

In interviews Clifton has talked about being a good listener and that she lets poems come to her. While this feels true in the clarity of voice, the sense of immediacy, and the forms of each poem, there is also a way that Clifton also approaches the world external to the poem with a fierce rhythm and musicality that complicate the image of "receiver" of poems. In Mercy so many of the poems are meditations on the historical and personal moment (which aren't separate for her) that Clifton finds herself in. Poems grapple, in direct, unmitigated tones, Clifton's mortality and fight with cancer.

I was really struck by out of body. The second poem in the collection introduces us to what appears several times later: the first line of the poem at (mama). For me, this is an exact gesture towards mortality and towards cycles. A poem that is in some ways towards her mama is also a poem that becomes an extended metaphor for death. Being one who deals in words, the anxiety about losing ones's voice is tremendous. the words fade, and all the things that might still be said are suddenly no longer available once death comes. For an artist, this is the great fear of death - of what might happen once one goes. "I am trying to say/ from my mouth/ but baby there is no/ mouth.

How frightening, I think. But Clifton's tone and play pulls away from the sadness and towards does not allow us to wallow. This is an outreach poem - baby - and one that might actually be coming from a mama to a child, careful to say all the things that are no longer within arms length.

Secondarily, the lines you must listen/ with your hands/ with the twist ends/ of your hair. These lines, which in some way identify where the body is leaning. Clifton makes sure to speak from her own experiences in ways and tones that reaches out to everyone, but does not devalue or inflate complexities. It makes me think of this quote:

"You know something?  I was just at a meeting today and there were just two people of color there,myself, and the guy who’s the president of the group…and the others there were not.  And one woman said something to me…and I said, “Why is it that when you say something about yourself, you’re talking about yourself as a human, but when I talk about my life, it’s political?”  And just because you say it, doesn’t mean it’s so.  That’s
the first thing about validity.  A lot of women have borne a lot of things; a lot of people have borne a lot of things.  There’s a certain kind of human that I want to be.  There is not shame in my life.  There is certainly misfortune, but I’m not the only one.  I do know that.  And sometimes, one of the things poetry can do is say to an audience: you are not alone.  It can also speak for those who have not yet found their voice to speak.  That’s part of the human condition.  And if we’re going to talk about humans, why are we just going to talk about the pretty ones."

Looking forward to seeing yall Tues!