My only objection to this wonderful collection is that it’s a collection and not, in my view, a book. Freeman has traveled a great deal. Thus, the more literal definition of maps. But for reasons I could not pick up on, unless it’s to present us with an anti-map approach, he alternated these poems with some deeply more personal ones, maps dare I say, of the human heart. So poems like “Barbers” and “Maps” and “Bomb Shelters of the Oligarchs” are all amazing, but the collection never develops the momentum it deserves.
Smith’s well-titled (play with that second word a while) is, like his poems, compact, powerful, and purposeful. I will also add versatile as Smith ranges over a variety of forms and topics, from current events (with attention to a topic that he covers in one of his TED Talks – “How to Raise a Black Son in America,to New Orleans (his hometown), to language, to love.
There are too many favorites to list here. Here’s one –
Here’s his site – Clint Smith’s site. Go ahead and get his book for yourself.
I always regret it when I don’t write reviews right away. Life’s been a bit busy, but I remember enough to say that I loved this collection – everything from its Kehinde Wiley cover and absolutely loaded (pun intended) title to the poems inside. “Taking Aim at a Macy’s Changing Room Mirror, I Blame Television” is an early favorite. “Watch Us Elocute” packs a punch. “Film Noir at Gallup Park, On the Edge,” “Animal Farm” and “Prayer on the Subdivision” are other favorites. Wicker’s voice just leaps off the page – sometimes to punch you, sometimes to prod you, always to make you think.
I’ve been a fan of Smith’s ever since I read his Dinosaurs in the Hood in Poetry Magazine. And his work spoke to our students as well, so we found what we could online and waited for this book, this National Book Award-nominated book to arrive. And it did. And wow. His poems, ranging from the personal to the political, will absolutely rock you back in your seat. The only thing better than reading them is hearing Smith himself read them. Second is the delight in my students’ faces when they hear someone who makes sense to them.
This one is mandatory – Dear White America
The running motif of the “bloodcell” absolutely haunts me.
The first thing that struck me when I picked this book up at the excellent Guide to Kulchur bookstore was the apparent contradiction in the title. “The Big Book of” sounds like the beginning of a children’s title. “Exit Strategies,” as far as I know it, is a military term. And May teases this contradiction out throughout the collection, turning often to a motif of journeys and his hometown of Detroit as he provides the kind of poems that make you both laugh and think. I had too many favorites to list them all here, so let me see what’s available online.
Ah, here’s one.
And another. . .
At least read its ending –
Aren’t graveyards and battlefields
our most efficient gardens?
Journeys begin there too if the flowers are taken
into account, and shouldn’t we always
take the flowers into account? Bring them to us.
We’ll come back to you. Peace will come to you
as a rosewood-colored road paver
in your grandmother’s town, as a trench
scraped into canvas, as a violin bow, a shovel,
an easel, a brushstroke that covers
burial mounds in grass. And love, you say,
is a constant blade, a trowel that plants
and uproots, and tomorrow
will be a tornado, you say. Then war,
a sick wind, will come to part the air,
straighten your suit,
and place fresh flowers
on all our muddy graves.
Heck, here’s his site –
It came as something of a relief to find that Baldwin’s poetry is not at the same level as his fiction, plays and essays. Many of these pieces seem like exercises, often featuring far too much concern with rhyme. There are moments of the kind of surgical observation I’ve come to expect from Baldwin in other genres. This, from “Staggerlee wonders” –
This flag has been planted on the moon:
it will be interesting to see
what steps the moon will take to be revenged
for this quite breathtaking presumption.
I could hear Baldwin’s voice in these lines.
I enjoyed the seemingly Langston Hughes influenced, “Song (for Skip)” and “Inventory / On Being 52” and bits and pieces of other poems, but generally, this collection didn’t grab me.
It can be a lot of fun to be at least roughly the same age as an author. The allusions and experiences can resonate so deeply that they prompt the painful laughter of recognition. Such was the case with Chilcote’s “Rock ‘n’ Rollers,” a gently mocking recollection of the first time the author, or at least the persona, heard Johnny Cougar’s “Hurts So Good” on a boom box. I was right there.
There’s a freshness in this collection, much of it celebrating the small moments that come up with being “sudden occupants of the life we’ve planned” as a married couple which leads to this insightful conclusion (in “Another Country”):
Perhaps marriage / is not a home, but a home-leaving – an imperfect residence in / another’s soul.
And then there are the children, forever ravenous (and very familiar), who, in “Veni Vidi Vici,”
Climb in the fridge, pull down yogurt, / scale the cabinets and topple teddy grahams, / Eat right off the floor.