We have spent a lot of time talking
about bodies and poetry in class but there is no way to prepare for the way the
poems in The Essential Etheridge Knight use/engage
the body. The work is beautiful rhythmically, sonically, tonally, and so on. But it is also sickening to the
point that my own body responded. There were times I wanted to crawl out of my
skin—leave my bones and mind behind. I wanted feelings to stop. But I could not not turn the page. I
was trapped—I am trapped in the pages and poems.
It is hard as a poet and English major
to call any speaker in a poem the poet, but most of these poems feel
autobiographical. I could not help but feel
Etheridge trapped in prison unable to do anything, but imagine
freedom—imagining feeling freedom. The metaphor-spector of the prison throughout
the book gave me chills. Because, of
course, the prison is literal, but it is also skin and gender, country and
citizen, love and war, body and mind, methadone and dreams. So even when the
poems move away from the physical prison walls the speaker is never free from
prison.
The poems their content, lines,
form, and juxtaposition are inescapable, yet they sing of escape and the futility
of it. I feel so much when I read these poems; however, it feels wrong to explicate
them line by line/stanza by stanza. For me it would feel too much like
examining an empty cell. Instead, I am going to put lines and stanzas one after
the other and let them speak together. I
will include the lines, stanzas, and short poems, which influenced me most, and
I will let Etheridge’s words end this post. My hope is that you will see where
I am coming from or feel it—since much of Etheridge’s work is about feeling.
“Haiku”
1
Eastern guard
tower
glints in the sunset; convicts
rest
like lizards on rocks.
“He Sees Through Stone”
He sees through stone
he
has the secret
eyes
this old black one
who
under prison skies
sits
pressed by the sun
against
the western wall
his
pipe between purple gums (1-7)
“The Warden Said To Me
The Other Day”
The warden said to me
the other day
(innocently, I think), "Say, etheridge,
why come the black boys don't run off
like the white boys do?"
I lowered my jaw and scratched my head
and said (innocently, I think), "Well, suh,
I ain't for sure, but I reckon it's cause
we ain't got no wheres to run to."
(innocently, I think), "Say, etheridge,
why come the black boys don't run off
like the white boys do?"
I lowered my jaw and scratched my head
and said (innocently, I think), "Well, suh,
I ain't for sure, but I reckon it's cause
we ain't got no wheres to run to."
“The Violent Space (Or When Your Sister Sleeps
Around For Money)”
And what do I do. I boil my
tears in a twisted spoon
And dance like an angel on the point of a needle.
I sit counting syllables like Midas gold.
I am not bold. I cannot yet take hold of the demon
And lift his weight from you black belly,
So I grab the air and sing my song.
(But the air cannot stand my singing long.) (32-38)
And dance like an angel on the point of a needle.
I sit counting syllables like Midas gold.
I am not bold. I cannot yet take hold of the demon
And lift his weight from you black belly,
So I grab the air and sing my song.
(But the air cannot stand my singing long.) (32-38)
“He Sees Through Stone”
the years fall
like over ripe plumbs
bursting ripe flesh
on the dark earth (9-11)
“A Black Poet
Leaps To His Death”
o poet of the blood and bone
of
the short song
and
serious belief
I sing you release (30-33)
“Rehabilitation Treatment In The Prisons Of
America”
He
was black, so he rushed— /
ran— through that door—and fell nine stories to
the street.
"Because, of course, the prison is literal, but it is also skin and gender, country and citizen, love and war, body and mind, methadone and dreams." <<---April you hit it on the head with this point. And the fact that this book literally encompasses ALL of these aspects and takes us on such an intimate ride...it's amazing. And overwhelming.
ReplyDelete"It is hard as a poet and English major to call any speaker in a poem the poet, but most of these poems feel autobiographical. I could not help but feel Etheridge trapped in prison unable to do anything, but imagine freedom—imagining feeling freedom. "
ReplyDeleteApril, even though I am not an English Major, I feel the same way especially with Etheridge. The autobiographical sense of the book is so beautifully delicate and gravelly that you can't help but to feel overwhelmed like Chanel has mentioned.
And drugs and being male and all the other prisons. The reactions are viscreal
ReplyDelete"Because, of course, the prison is literal, but it is also skin and gender, country and citizen, love and war, body and mind, methadone and dreams. So even when the poems move away from the physical prison walls the speaker is never free from prison."
ReplyDeletei look up and realize Chanel highlighted the same point! LOL. You're spot on, April, go OFF!! Your point forces me to look at each poem in its dealings with these respective prisons. Each of the poems you selected really struck chords within me as well, his haikus were dreamy, yet held an unforgivable reality that he had seen. to place prison within a haiku is both freeing and constricting (but mostly constricting). He hit us with humor in "The Warden Said to Me the Other Day", and even that humor is rooted in the prison of minstrelsy, one that is still imprisoning Black folks' psyches to this day in terms of how we act/are supposed to act, in the white gaze. Crazy!!!!!!