Orpheus and Eurydice by Sir Edward John Poynter (19th century)
The last couple of posts (here, here, and here) have dealt with the way in which love and death are intertwined in Renaissance literature, provoking melodramatic liebestod finales to a host of 15th and 16th century narratives. In the process of considering these narratives in which the desire to love lead to a desire for death, however, I was reminded of the stories in which death failed to create an insurmountable boundary for the lovers. The surge in popularity of classical Greek mythology in humanist Renaissance Europe makes me think that it would not be a huge leap of faith to assume the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice was fresh in the minds of poets and authors composing sentimental romances.
Orpheus is prepared to descend to the underworld to bring back his lover, not accepting death as the final act of his love story. But in his refusal to accept Eurydice's death, he confirms its permanence, looking back over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of her ghost materializing behind him. In popular folk narratives, stories in which lovers return from the grave for one final visit are not uncommon. This "one final visit," I believe, can be seen to function in two ways. On the one hand, the ghost returns to comfort their lover and properly say goodbye. On the other hand, it affirms the finality and permanence of death's grip, ending with the ghost vanishing back into the realm of the dead.
Orpheus and Eurydice on the Banks of the Styx by John Roddam Spencer Stanhope (19th century)
Although none of the 15th century Iberian stories that I've looked at over the past week narrate a lover returned from the dead, I do recall an Irish folksong that my mother always used to sing when I was little. It is a night visiting song, in which the ghost of a young woman's lover who died at sea wakes her one night to say one last farewell.
Here is a nice version of the song:
A similar tale is recounted in "The Night Visiting Song" by Luke Kelly:
These are potent stories that emerge across many cultures and historical periods. I recently stumbled across a cajun-French song from Louisiana, "Pa Janvier," performed beautifully by the International Blues Express. The song is a sorrowful appeal to Father January (Pa Janvier), the allegorical figure for winter, whose icy cold wind stole the health and life of a young woman. The song is the lament of the young woman's lover who has survived her, and he pleads with Father January to return to him his love.
They were recorded doing the song by the 78 Project, a husband and wife duo traveling the country recording traditional musicians on a 78 recording machine, very much in the style of Alan Lomax. Take a listen to these incredible musicians (who hail from the American Delta and West Africa) perform the doleful tune for their recording session:
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Do you know any night visiting songs? What are your favorite tales of ghost lovers?
Watching regular people dance will almost invariably elicit a great sense of satisfaction. Proof of this satisfaction is all over youtube. Home videos from weddings, family reunions, and all manner of public dancing, executed by mostly untrained and un-choreographed "regular" folks, receive tens of thousands of views everyday. We like to watch non-professional dancers wiggle their parts at least as much as we like to watch the professionals. Dancing is available to everyone (albeit in varying degrees of gracefulness) and observing dancing is, unlike many human experiences, almost as good as actually doing it.
Although we can see a regular person dancing just about any day (by turning up the speakers and dancing in front of a mirror), we are collectively, as a human culture, so smitten with watching one another dance that we reproduce this phenomena and seek to publicly associate ourselves with the good feelings brought on by seeing how our (sometimes uncoordinated) peers use their bodies as a physical response to rhythm and melody.
A little while ago, I began to keep track of professionally-made music videos whose content solely featured what I refer to as "regular people dancing." Here are a couple:
Dancing is about communicating with other bodies while at the same time becoming very personally aware of your own. Dancing is about simultaneously controlling yourself and letting yourself go. It serves to remind us that our brains only go so far in controlling the way we move through the physical world-- the messages going from brain to our body parts ("Ok, hips, start wiggling") are sometimes executed by those body parts in ways our brain couldn't or didn't predict ("Huh...ok...what am I doing?" or "Dang, I am extra-good at wiggling tonight.").
But perhaps one of the most alluring things about dancing is its potential ability to allow us to transcend the limits of our bodies and our world. For centuries, dancing has been the passageway into trance, into spirit possession, into a personal experience with something eternal.
I mentioned in a previous post that I had been reading a lot about a messianic movement from mid-16th century Peru, referred to as Taki Onqoy (which translates as "Sickness of Dancing" or "Dancing Sickness"). The only documentation we have of this movement comes from the Catholic priest, Cristobal de Albornoz, who took it upon himself to extirpate the movement, which he considered dangerous and heretical.
Guaman Poma's rendering of Cristobal de Albornoz's
extirpation of the Taki Onqoy movement in 16th century Peru
The documents Albornoz produced about the Taki Onqoy are addressed directly to the King of Spain and always close with an overt request to be made bishopric of Cuzco. His personal interests likely influenced the way in which he documented the Taki Onqoy, including the probably inflated number of participants and the blurry details about movement leadership.
What does seem clear, however, is the way in which this movement was practiced: after a period of fasting and abstinence, the taquiongos would enter into a trance through dancing. These were powerful experiences that allegedly lead dancers to reject Christianity and believe instead in a Pan-Indian, post-European and post-Incan society in which andean huacas (deities) acted as a united force, allowing their followers to live free of the oppression suffered at the hands of both Spanish and Incan rulers.
That dancing was central to this movement is not disputed. But rarely have critics and historians been able to explain why dancing was so crucial. ...
What happens to us when we dance? What happens to us when we watch others dance?
Fast-forward back to the present day--I've been reading a ton of books on Candomblé and Umbanda practice in Brazil. These are Afro-spiritous religions whose expression also has dancing rituals at their core. Dancing leads to spirit possession and, from within the ritual space of a terreiro, the pantheon of deities becomes fully present within the body of a dancer, before the eyes of on-lookers.
I could probably (and should probably) do a whole post on what I've recently learned about spirit possession in Brazil... but my point here is that dancing, regardless of borders, history, language, and belief systems, is experienced as a truly unique and mystical encounter of human and spiritual bodies.
These are just two examples of how dancing leads to spiritual connection and even messianic impulses... but I know there are so many examples from around the world and throughout history that would tell a similar story of dance's power. For the moment, however, I guess I am merely trying to point out the fact that even in mainstream pop-culture, we can see clear evidence of our profound attraction to dance--to regular people dancing.
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What do you make of all this??
What are your favorite videos of "regular people" dancing?
Dancing and screaming, they bring the bull back to life...
The brief time I spent in Maranhão was packed full of incredible cultural festivals. As I mentioned in a previous post, I was lucky enough to be there during the junina festivals. From the word junho, meaning "June," the festivals unsurprisingly span the entire month of June every year, as there are such a high concentration of saints' feast days within this one month. The festivities kick-off with the feast of São João (St. John the Baptist) and continue until St. Martial's feast day on the last day of the month.
The tradition of performing bumba meu boi coincides with the junina festivals and, in Maranhão, those performances are more popular and anticipated than carnival celebrations in February. In this northeastern state, there are schools for bumba meu boi-- like there are schools for samba/carnival-- that bring together communities to make costumes, write songs, and choreograph dances. I got the chance to see several different schools perform (there are multiple performances every single night in June in every different neighborhood). There were no two schools who expressed the bumba meu boi tradition in the same way; each school had a unique interpretation of this centuries-old cultural practice.
The basic story stays the same throughout all the performances, however, and is the story of Pai Francisco and his wife, Mai Catirina. Pai Francisco is a slave working on a large hacienda. His very pregnant wife Catirina decides that she wants to eat the tongue of the hacienda's most prized bull. She cajoles and nags and finally convinces Pai Francisco to kill the precious bull so that she can eat his tongue. When the patron of the hacienda discovers that Pai Francisco has killed his favorite bull, he threatens to kill him...unless he can somehow bring the bull back to life. Pai Francisco implores an indigenous tribe ("indios") living nearby to help him by using their magic medicine to revive the bull. They come to his assistance, dancing in elaborate patterns around the bull until he comes magically back to life and joins in the dance.
Pai Francisco always carries a machete as he dances, and Mai Catirina is often (though not always) played by a man in pregnant drag. The rhythm and melody to which this dance is performed is provided by a huge section of people either behind or to the side of the dancers, the majority of them playing matracas (wooden blocks hit together) and large, handheld drums.The lyrics of the songs are written by the singers of each school, and so they tend to reflect current relevant events (my favorite song lyric was "Foi no instagrã que te conheci..." which means, "I met you on Instagram...").
Towards the end of June and the junina festivities, St. Peter's feast day is celebrated, which is a big deal in the state of Maranhão and especially on the island of São Luís, as St. Peter is the patron saint of fisherman. The celebration for this feast day is special, and in fact goes all night. The event is referred to as the encontro dos bois (the meeting of the bulls) in which all of the bumba meu boi schools from all around the state make a pilgrimage to St. Peter's small chapel in São Luís. The chapel sits at the top of a steep hill looking out over the ocean. It's roof is made of sails, stretching out towards the sea, appearing as if at any moment it would sail off, through the sky, down into the sea.
St. Peter in his boat
The open basket sits at the foot of St. Peter's statue and is where people could drop off offerings such as the ex voto arms pictured here. The basket frequently filled up throughout the night and a volunteer would store the offerings in a back room and replace the basket, ready once more to be filled.
Hundreds of bulls and their musicians and their Pai Franciscos and their Mai Catirinas and their "indian" dancers arrive throughout the night and into the morning. They begin by dancing and singing at the foot of the hill, where large stages have been set up. Slowly, each school makes their way up the hundreds of steps towards the chapel, where they dance and sing for the statue of St. Peter, who has been placed in a small boat filled with flowers.
Community members from the surrounding neighborhoods, as well as from the farthest corners of the state, make the pilgrimage. They come to make petitions to the saint in the form of ex votos, they come to fulfill promises (such as dancing all night) as thanks for miracles in their lives that they attribute to the saint, and some even come to shake their fists in anger, shouting at the saint and berating him for not having granted some petition.
Many come, many dance, many weep - from the sheer intensity of the tremendous sound of throbbing drums pulsing through the small chapel, the fervency of the prayer, the neverendingness of the night, the elbow-to-elbow crowds dancing there in the extreme heat of an island two degrees off the equator.
Sunrise from the heights of the ship-like chapel.
From inside the chapel, I saw the sun rise over the ocean. At about 10:30am, four men hoisted the statue of St. Peter in his boat on their shoulders, and slowly made their way down the harrowingly steep stairs. When they reached the street, they loaded the saint onto the top of a big truck which carried him to the shore, where he was placed on a boat, to continue the procession in the water.
Here is a video I made of one of the bumba meu boi performances I saw and the encontro dos bois:
While this event was, without a doubt, the culminating experience of my time there, I was fortunate enough to witness other smaller cultural traditions as well. In São Luís' historic city center, many bumba meu boi performances were celebrated in the streets, alongside music and dance traditions such as tambor crioula and forrô. One could simply walk around that neighborhood, find something delicious to eat at a small stand, purchase a cocktail or a beer from another small stand, and discover a different live music performance waiting for them around almost every corner.
The tambor crioula was beautiful to watch. A group of men sang call-and-response songs and played drums while a circle of women wearing long, floral skirts and head-scarves twirled and danced and improvised steps. This tradition was brought by African slaves to Brazil and continues to be danced today by their decedents. What I didn't know at first about this tradition is that the women dancing the tambor crioula will sometimes pull female bystanders into their circle to dance with them for a little while, greeting them by putting their arms up into the air and bumping bellybutton-to-bellybutton. I saw several women get close to the circle when they were watching and, sure enough, bump-twirl-twirl....
When we arrived at the band playing forrô music, we all started dancing. Forrô is an incredibly fun dance music, native of Brazil's northeast. I love that one of the driving forces behind this music is the triangle- it is such a wonderful (and underused!) percussion instrument.
For some inexplicable reason, there were a couple of clowns hanging out in front of the forrô stage... they weren't singing or dancing really, but there they were in full clown regalia and face paint. Just one of those creepy delightfully unpredictable details of the junina festivities!
Here is a video I made of what it was like walking around the historic center at night, finding tambor crioula and forrô performances, tucked away on each corner...
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What are your favorite yearly festivals?? What new festivals and cultural traditions have you experienced recently? Until next time, fair petticoat rustlers-- keep rustling!
The music industry resounds with the robotic twang of autotuned human voices. Autotuning is a technology applied to vocals so as to either correct a singer's pitch or to distort the singer's voice and turn it into an electronic instrument.
Autotune software was created originally by a guy named Dr. Andy Hildebrand, a classically trained flautist and geophysicist. He serendipitously discovered that he could use the same digital signal processing software he used to help oil companies locate drilling spots as a way of looping music samples and correcting pitch in recordings. (For a complete history of auto tune, see this article.)
I have been thinking a lot about autotune recently, especially as a potential metaphor for artistic, performative, and literary production in the 21st century. Many detractors of autotune worry that the near-ubiquitous "pitch-perfect" vocals of contemporary music will train our ears to only appreciate in-tune music.
Lightnin Hopkins, blues musician and complete badass. "You know the blues is jus' a funny feelin-- people call it a mighty bad disease."
Autotune's detractors have raised what I believe to be a very important consideration, indeed. Not least of all because I believe the blues to be one of the major cultural contributions this country has made to the world-- a genre of music that resists classical pitch formalism in favor of the emotional outpouring through the voice of the human experience. Another example is Brazilian bossa nova, whose flagship aesthetic message was encapsulated in the song "Desafinado" ("out of tune"). What a terrible tragedy it would be to lose an appreciation for this music because of the obsession with perfect (inhuman) pitch.
But autotune is also used by artists trying to create a new aesthetic, and I want to appreciate this new sound, too. As I think more and more about the adjustments and innovations of autotune in music, I can't help but wonder if a parallel phenomena is creeping into performance and literature.
In particular, I'm curious about all the movie adaptations of classic literature and folk tales that has recently swept Hollywood. From Jack and the Beanstalk to the Great Gatsby, the beloved tales of literature are being transformed one by one into two hour CGI thrill rides.
Image from "Jack the Giant Slayer," a movie adaptation of the English fairytale "Jack and the Beanstalk"
This all leads me to ponder: if autotune can train our ear to only appreciate pitch-perfect music, can movie adaptations of literature train our imaginations to visualize scenes and events from literature in CGI?
Image from the movie "Snow White and the Huntsman," adapted from the German fairytale "Schneewittchen"
Although the recent onslaught of movie adaptations is not necessarily unprecedented; filmmakers and Disney have been producing movie versions of fairytales and literary classics for decades. But Disney and now this new CGI generation of adaptations have all propagated the moralized, happy-ending versions of the tales-- eradicating the possibility that children (and adults for that matter) should learn a lesson from these tales.
The moralized, bleached endings manipulate the ability of the story to edify: a dark and sinister conclusion is erased and the moralized versions only permit viewers (readers) to be temporarily entertained, while still be comforted by the imminent return to status quo. That is, what we are left with is temporary entertainment and permanently altered imagination (in the form of CGI). Or am I being to touchy??
And, like I said, Hollywood is not simply making-over fairytales. They are using the latest graphic imaging technology to bring to life Jane Austin, J.R.R. Tolkien, F. Scott Fitzgerald novels... the best screenplays, it seems, comes from the tried and true stories that gild literary canons.
Image from film adaptation of Jane Austen's Emma
Image from film adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit
Image from F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby
For many of these literary classics, it is not the first time they have been adapted to the screen. But the lush visuals possible with today's technology makes them more extraordinary than ever. So allow me to admit: I LOVE THESE MOVIES (okay, not all of them, but certainly the Tolkien movies). Yet, I want to be conscious of the ways in which I allow them to affect the way my mind's eye visualizes characters, scenes, magic, blood, triumph, and defeat. This I owe to myself, and to the authors whose imaginations first glimpsed these fantastic realms.
On a final note, I'd like to add that fairytales were originally part of an oral tradition; this orality seems to place fairytales' origins in a middle ground-- neither literature nor movies-- that makes for an even more interesting angle to the question. ...
Do you think that movies are autotuning our imaginations? What do you think about Hollywood's adaptations of literature? I for one cannot WAIT for the next installation of The Hobbit...and that's ok, right!? ...but what do you, my fair petticoat rustlers, think?
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After decades of music videos in which musicians stare directly into the camera, lip synching to their songs, and dancing about in bizarre wardrobes or their own clothing line, we have finally begun to move toward what I would like to refer to as neo-fantastical popular narrative, resulting from a productive integration of visual and auditory vocabulary. I find that the new music and short films envisioned by Woodkid is an exceptionally well done example of this phenomena.
Still from Woodkid's video Iron
Please don't get me wrong- I adore so many music videos that are a simple, straightforward films of the musicians in the act of making music. In fact, most of my favorite musicians' videos depict them performing their hearts out, allowing the expression of the music itself to be all the visual narrative necessary to convey the poetry of their sound.
But I am fascinated by what Woodkid (alias of Yoann Lemoine--French-born musician, graphic-designer, and video director) is accomplishing with the unison of visual and musical narrative. He makes use of many symbols that have recently become integrated into the pop-vernacular, namely wild animals, feathers and fur, and geometric angles. These symbols have risen to prominence thanks to the hipster aesthetic, which has recently appropriated and re-narrativized americana imagery. The way in which the Woodkid videos compile and set into motion these images seems to create a fantastical world with a defined black-and-grey sensibility.
Still from Woodkid's video Iron
What is appealing about this world is that it is the site of an epic struggle-- not necessarily between Good and Evil, but rather between youth and mortality. The violence of living in the world is enacted often through the perspective of a child and his resistance to the unstoppable arrival of the age of reason. Other times, a man appears to be in a foreign land where, regardless of the fact that he does not speak the same language as its inhabitants, music bridges the gap between the land's urbanity and the abyss of nature.
Still from Woodkid's video I Love You
I would love to know what you think about these videos, and if you know of any other artist creating synchronized visual/musical ex nihilo in this way. Here are the three videos I refer to in the post (I hope you enjoy them as much as I have!):
Ferréz - the Brazilian author of "marginal literature," including his novel Capão Pecado [Sins of the Capon], based on life in the favela Capão Redondo [Fat Capon].
The 2002 Brazilian film "Cidade de Deus" ("City of God") depicted an epic drug-gang war in a Rio de Janeiro favela (slum). The narrative was based on the real and violent events that occurred in the favela of the same name during the late 70s and early 80s. Nominated for 4 Oscars and named 6th best action/war film of all time in 2010 by Britain's publication, The Guardian, this film's popularity soared internationally and drew broad interest in Brazilian culture and narrative.
Aside from historic events, this film was also heavily influenced by the 1997 novel by Brazilian author, Paulo Lins (also called Cidade de Deus). Lins, as well as several other newer Brazilian authors, make up a burgeoning contemporary group of Marginal Literature authors. These authors, themselves raised in the favelas on the periphery of Brazilian society, write about life in the margins and center their fiction around these "invisible" lives filled with great love and hate, tenderness and violence.
Poet and Founder of Cooperifa, Sergio Vaz. Photo source
The movement of Brazilian Marginal Literature has picked up steam in the past decade, leading to the inauguration of organizations like Cooperifa, a cooperative of poor and blue collar writers, led by poet and group founder, Sergio Vaz.
This cooperative hosts open mic events in São Paulo during which audience members can share their own original poetry or short fiction as well as recite poems by other authors. Viewed as a way of developing one's own writing/reciting skills and a way of generating interest in literature, this cooperative is only one example of the grassroots initiatives that have sprung up as a result of the marginal literature movement.
In 2004, Alessandro Buzo opened the doors of the first and--thus far-- only bookstore carrying exclusively Brazilian marginal literature. The bookstore, called Suburbano Convicto publishes local authors and regularly hosts events in which these authors do readings from their latest book, promoting themselves as authors or poets and generating interest in literature.
Alessandro Buzo, founder of Suburbano Convicto,
a bookstore in São Paulo that exclusively
sells/publishes marginal literature. Photo source
Beyond this, though, Suburbano Convicto seems interested in promoting an entire subculture around the books it sells: the store also carries locally designed apparel, local music, and local amateur films. Inviting young rap artists to come and be a part of the store links poetry and rap, literature and the community. (Side note: if you read Portuguese, you must read this wonderful article by Brazilian critic, Marcelo Schincariol, in which he shows how a literary adaptation of the practice of "sampling" used in rap music is a major structural feature in Lins' City of God.)
By creating a lifestyle around the literature, those that have decided to dedicate themselves to literature can then also "rep" that decision outwardly: the bookstore's clothing marks them as a poet/rapper/writer just as certain colors can mark gang affiliations in the same neighborhoods.
Cover art for Capão Pecado
Several authors writing marginal literature have gained a good deal of notoriety. As I already mentioned, Paulo Lins' work is now known internationally, due large part to the cinematic adaptation one of his novels. But within Brazil, another author shares the spotlight with Lins: Ferréz. In 1998, Ferréz published his first novel, Capão Pecado [roughly translates to "Sins of the Capon"] a reference to the southern São Paulo favela he grew up in called Capão Redondo [Fat Capon].
The book opens with a free-flowing and rhythmic introduction by Mano Brown, a well-known Brazilian rapper.
This introduction is followed by a page-long, poetic dedication by Ferréz, in which he dedicates the book to the illiterate and those who are too poor to own their own books.
Then the narrative begins, moving through quotidian events of the Capão Redondo favela, following an adolescent boy named Rael, the novel's protagonist. Rael aspires to be a writer, but needs to confront the many "distractions" of the favela, the doubt of his family and friends in the ability of a favela boy to become a writer, and a dangerous conflict he initiates with his former best friend by falling in love with the friend's girlfriend.
As you can imagine, the novel doesn't have a warm-fuzzy ending with everything turning out all right. Justice does not prevail-- rather, what prevails is a sick, twisted vigilante form of justice wielded by the weak over the weaker.
But the novel approaches these subjects delicately and with a great degree of artistry. Making abundant use of the free indirect discourse, the narration successfully provides a kaleidoscope of perspectives. This free indirect style has an unsettling effect on the reader: one finds herself casually accepting circumstances that she would normally be horrified by. Ferréz has been accused of not knowing how to craft a novel, because the narration in his books can shift rapidly between perspectives-- but this seems to me to be the most efficient way to force his readers into the sense of helplessness and confusion often thriving in the favela.
The very title foreshadows the deconstruction of symbolic power that is to come in this book: a capon is a castrated rooster. Normally a symbol of male aggression, violence, and power, the symbolic rooster here is castrated, fattened, and awaiting the drop of the ax.
I have not found any English-language translations yet of Ferréz's books, but the author also happens to be a rapper (!!!) so you can still appreciate the sound of his words, even without understanding them.....
On a final note- I would just like to say that I would absolutely love it if bookstores in this country were as proactive about generating interest in local literature as is Suburbano Convicto. Wouldn't you love to meet up with you neighbors at the bookstore down the street, hear their poetry, listen to their music, and share recite your favorite poems for them?! Who's with me!? ...Or does something like this already exist?
Until next time-- keep those petticoats rustling!!!
Kevin Young is without a doubt one of my favorite English-language poets of the 21st century. With an economical use of words, he readily opens the unfinished wooden doors of his poems to his readers-- the seemingly simple words of his verses spread in your mind like a strong liquor, doubling and tripling in meaning as you work your way through his books and drink in the uniquely American spectacle of blues, jazz, hardboiled detectives, and soul food.
Young has the ability to capture these manifestations of Americanness as beautiful, magical, sensual. Yet he laces the very same lines that celebrate these traditions with a dose of the intense pain and longing which forged them. Through this integration of pain and beauty, Young creates moods and ambiences which bridge the personal and the universal through the sharing of food and drink, music and memory, mourning and loss.
He is a prolific poet, with 7 books of poetry published to date. Of these 7 books, so far I've read Jelly Roll (inspired by the blues), Black Maria (poems that tell a hardboiled detective story, complete with a femme fatale and thugs), Dear Darkness (odes to soul food and the poet's father), and For the Confederate Dead (poems about the painful legacy of American slavery and Jim Crow laws).
Jelly Roll was his third book of poetry and the first one I read (I actually got to hear the poet read a selection of poems from this book!). Jelly Roll is a collection of verses that draw heavily on the prominent motifs of American blues. Without being derivative or forced, these poems become fully blues in their rhythm and voice-- a sexy and sorrowful melody that feels both past and present at once.
For example, in his poem "Sorrow Song," Young expresses that traveling lovesickness that causes concern over one's very soul. Young marks the poem with dashes and parenthesis and line breaks that seem to become the breaths and moans in the songs that inspired these verses:
Le sigh. See what I mean?! Brilliant. I love this guy.
In so few words, there is already an atmosphere and a mood established; the fresh memory of love is burdened by a goodbye and the uncertainties of the path one is (not?) taking. The rhythm of the poem holds true to an old blues song, but the subway is such a contemporary image of progress-- here we have cause to sing the blues once more, for even as the world progresses, heartache and doubt can still trouble a man's mind. And the poem provides this sad moan-- the woman beside him humming "thick as a cough/ or its syrup" accompanies his lonely journey home.
Of the four books of Young's poetry that I have read so far, my favorite is Dear Darkness. This is the first book of poetry that Young wrote after dealing with his father's untimely death. Many of the poems in this book combine descriptions of soul food dishes with the process of remembering and mourning a family member.
The juxtaposition of these two activities--eating, a life affirming activity, and mourning, an activity directly tied to death--unveils an inherent and lovely strangeness of human experience in which, a meal that lasts only the 10 minutes it takes to be eaten, can contain the continuity of a family's history.
I am utterly in love with "Ode to Kitchen Grease" and "Ode to Pork"in which Young addresses, in second person, the kitchen grease like a family member ("... Grey/ grandfather, once clear/ your grew cloudy/ with age so we put you/ in a home, & out/ of ours. ...") and pork like a lover ("Your heaven is the only one/ worth wanting--/ you keep me up all night/ cursing your four-/ letter name, the next/ begging for you again.")
In many of the other odes in this book, Young slips in details about his father or mother or cousin or auntie-- details that link the sensory experiences to very specific people and events and remind the reader that, in spite of the humor Young manages to write into all these poems, they also contain hurt and sadness.
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I cannot recommend Young's poetry enough, and I discovered that last year (2012), he published a non-fiction book of essays called The Grey Album: on the Blackness of Blackness, a book that takes on cultural criticism, and lyrical chorus to illustrate the African American tradition of lying-storytelling, telling tales, fibbing, improvising, 'jazzing,'" according to his website. I also would really like to get a hold of his other books of poetry that I'm missing, including To Repel Ghosts, a collection inspired by the visual artwork of Jean-Michel Basquiat.
...In the meantime, the Band of Wild Petticoats gallops towards new literature...and new poets. Until next time!
