Feeding The Light - Jaki Shelton Green (Jacar Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Feeding the Light.  Jaki Shelton Green.  Jacar Press.  Durham, North Carolina. 2014.

Any poet who mentions Miles Davis, Pharoah Sanders, Herbie Hancock and Ornette Coleman all in one poem is going to get the attention of an old jazz-rat like me.  These names fall of of Jaki Shelton Green's capable lips with such familiarity they might almost be an afterthought.  After all, what reasonable poet wouldn't want these giants wandering their poems and setting tempo?

But Today's book of poetry would be misleading our readers if we led you to believe that Feeding the Light is about jazz.  No, jazz lives here but it's not the addressee.  Green uses a stream of extreme consciousness to pinwheel through kaleidoscopic narratives.  There is light, as the title suggests, and it is refracted through a dozen different lens in real time.  The effect is splendid.

feeding the light

                for aunt lilly

                          (who taught me how to see in the dark)

we risk ice storms postpone passionate death to swirl head

first beyond wise breathing lessons beyond crimson soaked

necks crushed knuckles and stinking birth skin all the way

down past gray fields chaste moons yet light so pregnant it

seeps across insolent skies too ashamed to name the dances

too ashamed to name the shaman who eats the jazz behind

iron doors praying for half notes that cure blindness cure

the bestial that lurks inside places troubles on the water one

tenor eyelash at a time reappearing at the bottom of a worn

out morning after cup of mils pharoah herbie ornette we

risk falling out of the well used belly the platinum engraved

womb that cherishes a right handed bass player clean blue

velvet shoes that keep nameless eyes waiting he has a way

of singing thick thighs apart in the middle of blazing duets

knows how to pull blossoms out of the ground through

february snow drifts feeds a bastard sky child nothing but

horn a wild child reading the book of the thousand nights

and a night blue velvet shoes can't keep a damn lie straight

in between identifying frozen crushing faces slaughtered for

whispering jazz slaughtered for smelling like jazz wooden

zulu spears silver coins wet feathers we risk losing our

sense of flight our gypsy hearts in search of jazz eating

shaman who serves holy bread with blues water his voice

slicing daylight feeding small pieces to all that is left of a

brown jungle girl whose bones smoke up every juke joint in

between here and all the places she died alone on alabaster

steps voice strangled by kisses prayers abandoned weeping

shaman cures her dreams pours billie sarah nina ella down 

her throat horny hips thrust shatter shred blue velvet shoes

across the room a narrow mirror becomes a road and she

learns to fly straight through a glass sky she be music now

she be night-fed she be forgiveness rupturing a worn out

morning after cup of herself she be birthing remixing clocks

calendars numbers maps her sweat sweet round midnight

honey washing up onto a shore of seasons smelling like

drums tasting like a flute of curry we risk night searching

wanting to taste her skin.

...

Feeding the Light isn't about jazz but it has all the rhythms, drives like good jazz.  Green is making multitudinous connections at light speed, all held together with a rock solid bottom, foundation.

Feeding the Light is not about jazz but Jaki Shelton Green is wailing when she tells the story of an arranged marriage in Kandahar.  Any romantic mystique fouled by the green toothed grin and rancid breath of the aging groom.  Green explores the intimate violence of a woman's world, she goes places most of us never see.

waiting for love

alone cold mint tea in orange plastic torn djelaba a red

you forbid waiting drowning in six too many capsules of

magic trying to remember the words of the astrologer or

what you were screaming as you fled into the secret clay

wall of your brother's house trying to understand that i am

only allowed to pray on wednesdays pray only in the blue

mosque in Mazar-e-Sharif or join your sisters at Karte-

e-Shakhi this strange but magical Kabul my captor Kabul

the first time I drank the darkness of a particular Pashtun

male the morning i am face to face with Malalai the only

female police in Kandahar we play burqa eye games before

she slaps me shouting to lower my gaze cover my hennaed

wrists or wake up dead i return to these walls i name home

to the sacred stitches and colors rugs from your tribe my

dowry my art i smoke the ancient hashish i found buried

beneath the kitchen wall tiles your younger sister Selah

arrives tells me it belonged to your grandmother we smoke

sleep cry eat the feta olives grapes and dream of weddings

hair beaches nail polish dark warriors bearing Tibetan music

we arrive by caravan to the wedding site your father tells

me you will come so i search for you amongst the men

that encircle the wedding party and begin wishing that i

could place a hidden camera in the back of my burqa so

i can see you when you remain invisible i am the foreign

woman laughing undetected beneath my blue wedding

tent a gift from your mother reminding me that this is the

way for a refugee wife suddenly i smell the secret blend

of wedding oils against my face it is Zarah your sister

laughing far too openly amongst men hugging thanking me

for her happiness not understanding the smile in her eyes

i do not feel my body shift or her left hand seize the gun

from my pocket Zarah my sister-in-law forced to marry

the man with green teeth shoots her head off during the

beginning of the weeklong Eid-e-Ghorbon trying to forget

all i am forced to remember razor wire nights Koochie boys

wearing desert faces speaking to me in all the languages

of hunger begging for gold thread i don't remember the

name of the particular dark Pashtun male or the color of

Zarah's wedding dress i try to forget her smile the way

blood creates its own art spraying the cake the gifts of sugar

bread honey spices prayer carpets scarves from her sisters i

remember your daily screams when i forgot and opened the

door to visitors is Peshawar forgetting always to wear my

chador i remind you that i am the same woman you danced

with beneath the stars in Kandahar the same astrologer

who meets your eyes in the bazaar i am every woman in

the snow covered streets of Ghazni or in Herat Province

lighting candles in search of Zarah's gold teeth i am the lost

bullet lodged in the wedding cake that the man with green

teeth serves to his new bride Fatima i will meet her in the

bathroom stalls next door to the blue mosque and pretend

i do not see her tap my market basket remove the muslin

cloth covering the fresh chicken dates onions potatoes

lemons drop my knife into the deep pockets of her riding

skirts our smiles whispering salaams it is the coldest night

without you and i am preparing a dinner for your return the

foods of our passionate longings lentil and bulgar patties

stuffed eggplant kasseri cheese my brother smuggles from

Turkey chicken pilaf raisin compote i spend hours shaving

oiling my skin soaking in frankincense ginger jasmine water

arrange rose petals through our bed sharpen candle

sticks that will light this night there is no more hashish guns

or knives only the wedding feast waiting.

...

Green inhabits the lives of several unforgettable women, some almost mythic in stature and substance.  These are brave poems about strong women in a world where they are not always valued or appreciated.  To say the least.

Feeding the Light made for an energetic group of readers at our morning read.  Kathryn, our Jr. Editor, took the lead as she most often does these days.  The readers were unanimous, they wanted more.

Gender and culture make for a big battlefield but Green does not flinch.  

an eclipse of skin

i

the blood was calling

ii

ancient spirits

gather beneath erect feet

cry an ancestral anointment

kiss torn torso

restitch face to smile

iii

splintered hands

hold death songs

one breath crawling towards light

iv

hidden in every finger joint

hidden between shoulder and neck

hidden between heart and rib

v

yo hair is in my drink missus sarah

go ahead and move it william

you know you don't want to drink my hair

do you william?

...

Jaki Shelton Green is searching for the light in all things, storming through the darkness, spirit strong, reaching for the light.  This is the sort of optimism we applaud at Today's book of poetry.

Feeding the Light is one of those welcomed chapbooks that reads much bigger.  Once inside Jaki Shelton Green world everything expanded.  Green can burn.

Jaki Shelton Green

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jaki Shelton Green is a poet, creativity coach, teacher, and cultural activist.  Her books include Dead on Arrival, Dead on Arrival and New Poems, Conjure Blues, singing a tree into dance, and breath of the song.  The recipient of many awards, she was recently inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame.  She lives in Mebane, North Carolina.

BLURB

“Rooted in hypnagogic logic and deeply seated in the tradition of Jayne Cortez, Quincy Troupe and Ntozake Shange, Jaki Shelton Green’s verse narratives pay homage to the orphic ethos of the mythmaking South with all the viscous verve of Van Gogh with a palette of syllables, images and words blurring through our senses like the thick, sleek wax of magnolia leaves. Her images conjure cultural beauty from a world-weary—yet ecstatic—kaleidoscopic lens while sustaining a pained relevance that serves up love from every angle of human anguish: the forced marriage of a child bride; memories of grandmothers and mentors, praiseworthy and proud. In Feeding the Light, Jaki Shelton Green captivates with a global vision. Her poems are totems and tomes; they are percussive, convulsive and constructive.”

—Tony Medina, author of Broke Baroque, The President Looks Like Me & Other Poems, and An Onion of Wars.

Jaki Shelton Green

Poet Jaki Shelton Green reads at the 2014 North Carolina Literary Festival, where Green was announced as a 2014 inductee to the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame (www.nclhof.org). 

jacarpress.com

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DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"

and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some "cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration.

Resisting Arrest, poems to stretch the sky - Edited by Tony Medina (Jacar Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Resisting Arrest, poems to stretch the sky.  Edited by Tony Medina.  Jacar Press.  Durham, North Carolina.  2016.

The anthology Resisting Arrest, poems to stretch the sky is not Black Lives Matter but Today's book of poetry is convinced it may be the most authentic volume that voices the same concerns. The last thing in the world Today's book of poetry wants to do is to 60-year-old-white-mansplain the races issues of the day so I will try to tell you about why these poems matter.

Sometimes the truth is a hard read but these poems propel the reader into a small part of the reality over 40,000,000 Black Americans, over 1,000,000 Black Canadians face daily, systemic racism.

Resisting Arrest reads like poetry as indictment of a broken society.

How We Could Have Lived or Died This Way

Not songs of loyalty alone are these,

But songs of insurrection also,

For I am the sworn poet of every dauntless rebel the world over.

                                                                                  Walt Whitman

I see the dark-skinned bodies falling in the street as their ancestors fell

before the whip and steel, the last blood pooling, the last breath spitting.

I see the immigrant street vendor flashing his wallet to the cops,

shot so many times there are bullet holes in the soles of his feet.

I see the deaf woodcarver and his pocketknife, crossing the street

in front of a cop who yells, then fires. I see the drug raid, the wrong

door kicked in, the minister's heart seizing up. I see the man hawking

a fistful of cigarettes, the cop's chokehold that makes his wheezing

lungs stop wheezing forever. I am in the crowd, at the window,

kneeling beside the body left on the asphalt for hours, covered in a sheet.

I see the suicides: the conga player handcuffed for drumming on the subway,

hanged in the jail cell with his hands cuffed behind him; the suspect leaking

blood from his chest in the back seat of the squad car; the 300-pound boy

said to stampede barehanded into the bullets drilling his forehead.

I see the coroner nodding, the words he types in his report burrowing

into the skin like more bullets. I see the government investigations stacking,

words buzzing on the page, then suffocated as bees suffocate in a jar. I see

the next Black man, fleeing as the fugitive slave once fled the slave-catcher,

shot in the back for a broken tail light. I see the cop handcuff the corpse.

I see the rebels marching, hands upraised before the riot squads,

face in bandannas against the tear gas, and I walk beside them unseen.

I see the poets, who will write the songs of insurrection generations unborn

will read or hear a century from now, words that make them wonder

how we could have lived or died this way, how the descendants of slaves

still fled and the descendants of slave-catchers still shot them, how we awoke

every morning without the blood of the dead sweating from every pore.

- Martin Espada

...

Today's book of poetry fears my lack of proper perspective from the ivory tower of my entitlement but two years ago I did a reading in Bryn Mawr, just outside of Philadelphia, with Lamont B. Steptoe. Lamont is a Vietnam veteran, a poet, publisher, journalist and so on, his books include Kitchens of the Master (Iniquity Press/Vendetta Books) and Uncle's South Sea China Blue Nightmare (Plan B Press, 2013).  I can't quote from our conversation that evening except to say that it was a privilege to meet the man.  I was able to find the following quote from Lamont during an interview he did with Jordan Green for the American Poets Interview Series:

          "I'm an endangered species in American society.  I feel like a Jew in Berlin

          in 1939.  I grew up in the 50's when there was hope, when people thought

          that with integration we would overcome segregation, that integration

          would solve the problem.  But that's not what happened."

How to Not Get Killed by the NYPD.

When you see the pitch-perfect black 4-door shaded windows roll

up on you, don't grip your wheel. Casually look over your shoulder

as a shaded window slips down. Don't think drive-by. Don't remember

history. It's only the police. Keep your hands on the wheel. In plain

view. It's the police. Keep your hands on the wheel. The light will turn

in your favor. Don't drive off. Keep your hands on the wheel. Wait,

with your left foot pressed hard on the clutch, right foot pressed lightly

on the brake. Hands on the wheel. Raise an eyebrow when the police

officer raises a question: what's the speed limit in New York City? Note:

the correct answer is 30, no matter the street, no matter the avenue.,

no matter the faster moving highway traffic, the answer is 30          30.

Don't ask him to clarify. Don't smile. You are anxious. You will smile.

Don't explain when asked why you're smiling. Don't explain

your explanation when asked why you're explaining. Don't say:

we're blocking the road. Don't say: we're triple-parked.

Don't ask them to clarify the infraction. You are the infraction.

Don't remove your hands for the wheel. Accept

that you were pulled over. Accept the fact of the two fingers patting

the badge. Accept the hostile forehead, the condescension of the mouth.

Accept the fact of the wheel, troubling your hands. Accept their power.

          Nod.

when they repeat: we could give you a summons. Over & over & over

they will repeat this. Summons. Summons. Summons. We could

          give you --.

The light will turn yellow. Red. Don't read the lights as a sign. The light

will turn green again. Don't let them see your jaw set in irritation. Accept

their power. Don't remember the history of police brutality in

          New York. Keep.

your hands in plain view. They shoot you in New York. 41 times.

4 times. In your grandmother's bathroom, they will shoot you. In front

of your house, they will call you burglar and shoot you. Don't remember

any of this. Don't ask them questions. Don't nod your head. Keep

          Your hands

on the wheel. Don't smile. Don't smile. Don't smile. Keep your hands

on the wheel. There is a right answer to their questions: yes, yes, yes, yes,

yes, yes, yes, you have the power, you have the power, you have the

          power, you

have -- Keep your hands on the wheel. Drive off before they arrest you

for sitting too long at a green light. Avoid looking in your rearview

          mirror.

They will not drive off before you. They will haunt you in the daylight.

In their smoke-black 4-door (illegally) tinted windows, they mean

          to haunt.

- Metta Sáma        

...


Resisting Arrest is hot to the touch and hard to read.  There is no arguing the unassailable truths in these poems, they shower down like a hard rain.  These poems are gut-punch certain and so damned sad that you want to turn back time.

Editor Tony Medina has done an extraordinary thing here, he has brought articulate and impassioned reason and wrapped it in "a terrible beauty", Medina has amassed "Hearts with one purpose alone."

Red Summer, 2015

1
The year
is 2015
Nine holy martyrs are shot
by a man with a scheme
He was nurtured and
weaned on
a textbook of lies
in which slavers and
killers reigned
supreme
Jefferson Davis
Nathan Bedford Forrest
and Robert E. Lee.

2
The devil entered
Vesey's church
disguised as a youth
But the children of god
recognized a hoof
could smell his soot
but clung to their vow
not to give strangers
the sinner's boot

3
They invited him in
to join them in prayer
and so powerful was their
prayer with its African roots
after Daniel Roof completed
his assignment from hell
He said their prayer
almost got to me
almost turned me
said he
Almost bought
the devil to the mourner's
bench
His mind full of bile
he came to defile
A mother played dead
in the blood of her child.

4
a child was shot down
while holding a toy
The police asked questions
but nobody was blamed
The stars in his eyes went
dim in the day
he lay on the pavement
where children played games

5
A man was shot in the
back
while running away
The shooter took aim
as though he were game
the demons are partying
with their buddies, the
fiends, and having a good
time
drinking bad whiskey
and drinking bad wine

6
Red Summer
the year is
2015
For making ends meet
by selling cigs loose
or making a lane change
they will give you the noose
His neck was crushed
in the back of a van
he got "the wild ride"
he could breathe no more
They found her dead on
the jailhouse floor
A grand jury looked
and issued a tome
They blessed the killers
and allowed them to roam.
Go and kill again the
suburbs said,
we got
your back when you shoot
a black in the back

7
When Dorsey got news
that both wife and child were
dead
that's our mood
in this summer of dread
The spirit was his guide
when he wrote that great song
but who is the god
who will take our hand
and who is the god
who will lead us on?

8
"Don't you get weary"
Martin said when he
spoke of his dream
His words have kept us
from drowning in screams
in this bloody summer
of 2015
Where killers and murderers
reign supreme and
demons are partying with their
buddies the fiends, and having
a good time
drinking cheap whiskey
and drinking Ripple

9
You brought down the flag
you all joined hands and
cried
but you still have
highways and buildings
honoring those who
committed high crimes
Who didn't want people to
be free
Jefferson Davis
Nathan Bedford Forrest
and Robert E. Lee.


- Ishmael Reed

...

Today's morning read was a somber and serious affair.  Sometimes all you have to offer, as a reader, is respect.  We read the poems in Resisting Arrest, poems to stretch the sky and then Kathryn, our Jr. Editor, suggested that as measure of that respect we include all of the poets from the anthology in today's blog.

Lamont B. Steptoe does not appear in this blog but we met him through our great friend Frank "Chui" Fitzgerald and thought our Philadelphia conversation added some perspective.  Today's book of poetry takes our hat off to Lamont.

Here are the voices you'll get to hear in Resisting Arrest:

Jane Alberdeston Coralin
Abdul Ali
Lauren K. Alleyne
T.J. Anderson III
Jabari Asim
b: william bearhart
Zeina Hashem Beck
Tara Betts
Roger Bonair-Agard
Derrick Weston Brown
Jericho Brown
Mahogany L. Browne
Ana Castillo
Ching-In Chen
James Cherry
Kwame Dawes
Joel Dias-Porter
LaTasha N. Nevada Diggs
Mark Doty
Michell L.H. Douglas
Rita Dove
Cornelius Eady
Kelly Norman Ellis
Martin Espada
Adam Falkner
Malcolm Friend
Ross Gay
Maria Mazziotti Gillan
Brian Gilmore
Keith Gilyard
Veronica Golos
Jaki Shelton Green
Rachel Eliza Griffiths
Minal Hajratwala
Joy Harjo
Niki Herd
Everett Hoagland
Rashidah Ismaili
Esther Iverem
Reuben Jackson
Patricia Spears Jones
Quincy Scott Jones
Allison Joseph
Douglas Kearney
Ruth Ellen Kocher
Yusef Komunyakaa
Nile Lansana
Raina J. Leon
Kenji C. Liu
Haki R. Madhubuti
devorah major
Jamaal May
Tony Medina
Kamilah Aisha Moon
Thylias Moss
Ricardo Nazario y Colon
Marilyn Nelson
Rae Paris
Boa Phi
Khadijah Queen
Camille Rankine
Ishmael Reed
Tennessee Reed
Kim Roberts
Metta Sama
Sonia Sanchez
Jon Sands
Danny Simmons
Marilyn Singer
giovanni singleton
Lynne Thompson
Venus Thrah
Askia M. Toure'
Quincy Troupe
Frank X Walker
Jerry W. Ward, Jr.
Afaa Michael Weaver
Marvin K. White
Phillip B. Williams
L. Lamar Wilson

This choir of poets will bring down the house.  Their harmonies so beautiful and complex you can almost stop believing that they are screaming for their lives.

BLACK LIVES MATTER.  Damned right they do.

Jacar Press may have produced the most important book of poetry you'll see this year.

...

jacarpress.com

546

DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"

and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some "cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration.