As the twentieth collection in the poet’s hallmarked career, City of Bones reaches a pinnacle, adding another chapter to the grand narrative of invention and discovery cradled in the art of empathy that has defined his prodigious body of work. Dawes’s formal mastery is matched only by the precision of his insights into what is at stake in our lives today. These poems are shot through with music from the drum to reggae to the blues to jazz to gospel, proving that Dawes is the ambassador of words and worlds.
As the twentieth collection in the poet’s hallmarked career, City of Bones reaches a pinnacle, adding another chapter to the grand narrative of invention and discovery cradled in the art of empathy that has defined his prodigious body of work. Dawes’s formal mastery is matched only by the precision of his insights into what is at stake in our lives today. These poems are shot through with music from the drum to reggae to the blues to jazz to gospel, proving that Dawes is the ambassador of words and worlds.
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Overview
As the twentieth collection in the poet’s hallmarked career, City of Bones reaches a pinnacle, adding another chapter to the grand narrative of invention and discovery cradled in the art of empathy that has defined his prodigious body of work. Dawes’s formal mastery is matched only by the precision of his insights into what is at stake in our lives today. These poems are shot through with music from the drum to reggae to the blues to jazz to gospel, proving that Dawes is the ambassador of words and worlds.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780810134621 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Northwestern University Press |
| Publication date: | 01/15/2017 |
| Edition description: | New Edition |
| Pages: | 232 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.10(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.80(d) |
About the Author
KWAME DAWES is the author of nineteen books of poetry as well as numerous collections of fiction, criticism, and essays, and the editor of more than a dozen anthologies. Dawes is Glenna Luschei Editor of Prairie Schooner and teaches at the University of Nebraska and in the Pacific M.F.A. Writing Program. He is the founding director of the African Poetry Book Fund and the artistic director of the Calabash International Literary Festival. He lives in Lincoln, Nebraska.
Read an Excerpt
City of Bones
A Testament
By Kwame Dawes
Northwestern University Press
Copyright © 2017 Kwame DawesAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8101-3462-1
CHAPTER 1
Part One
Stealing Home
My ailing father listening to the crickets last day of August
— Rick Black
Crossroads
Lie down, lie down and live As quiet as a bone
— Dylan Thomas, "Once Below a Time"
This is the dark of Babylon, tawny
prairie lands dull with light snow,
the sky heavy with gloom; my mornings
continue the nightmare of cold eating
away at the wrack of my body; so
dry, so bleak, so complete. The Devil
is at the crossroads. Would have preferred
to meet my panting father, his eyes
so long emptied of hope — he couldn't
even get drunk right — how they made
him like this, his last dream blighted
by the thud on his flimsy wall,
the foreman's bark, the burden
of cotton; the truth that there is
nothing but a beast's emptiness
to his life, caged in the limits
of his district, caged by the rituals
of burying the dead long before
they have died, caged by the hunger
of children. Good God, even the nastiest
sinner knows not to go get drunk
in the steamed-up chapel where
Jesus promises a party in the hereafter.
Wish it was my papa
with his big hands, with his
fistful of his fat dick asking
me if I have a problem if he
can taste some of my girl's cream,
maybe find his way to heaven
before I do, and he beat
me off her, dropped his overalls
and made her go mute in dust
beneath the towering elms, the horse,
scrawny as these bodies of ours
ritualizing the way a man becomes
a man. I had to whip him, had
to beat on him, had to make blood
come from my father's head, had to
watch him crawl up against a tree,
look at me, tell me he will never see me
no more, never feed me no more,
like it was the biggest relief of his life,
like he had been waiting all his life
to cut me off of him for good.
And that girl, gathering her things,
told me to stay and make it right.
She said it would be foolish to starve
over some country pussy. "It ain't
nothing," she said. "Just plain stupid
to think a nigger girl needs a hero,
like I ain't never been screwed
by Satan looking for some heaven
in this ragged edge of life." Wish
it was my daddy at the crossroads
waiting for me, but he wasn't there.
It was just the Devil, and he got
mad 'cause I wasn't scared of him,
and I told him to do his worst. What
can a fool do to me in this
cold place where everything is dark
and home don't have a sound
no more? So tired, dear God,
I am so damned tired deep
down in my bones; I am so
tired of walking hard, so tired
of walking through this Babylon land.
Death: Baron Samedi
First your dog dies and you pray
for the Holy Spirit to raise the inept
lump in the sack, but Jesus's name
is no magic charm; sun sets and the
flies are gathering. That is how faith
dies. By dawn you know death;
the way it arrives and then grows
silent. Death wins. So you walk
out to the tangle of thorny weeds behind
the barn; and you coax a black
cat to your fingers. You let it lick
milk and spit from your hand before
you squeeze its neck until it messes
itself, it claws tearing your skin,
its eyes growing into saucers.
A dead cat is light as a live
one and not stiff, not yet. You
grab its tail and fling it as
far as you can. The crows find
it first; by then the stench
of the hog pens hides the canker
of death. Now you know the power
of death, that you have it,
that you can take life in a second
and wake the same the next day.
This is why you can't fear death.
You have seen the broken neck
of a man in a well, you know who
pushed him over the lip of the well,
tumbling down; you know all about
blood on the ground. You know that
a dead dog is a dead cat is a dead
man. Now you look a white man
in the face, talk to him about
cotton prices and the cost of land,
laugh your wide-open-mouthed laugh
in his face, and he knows one thing
about you: that you know the power
of death, and you will die as easily
as live. This is how a man seizes
what he wants, how a man
turns the world over in dreams,
eats a solid meal and waits
for death to come like nothing,
like the open sky, like light
at early morning. Like a man
in red pin-striped trousers, a black
top hat, a yellow scarf
and a kerchief dipped in eau
de cologne to cut through
the stench coming from his mouth.
Open Spaces
After "Seeking," by Jonathan Green
1
Deep in the dank forest, you can smell
the salt and rot of the coast. A memory
of another shore returns familiar as shells
you see around the roots of the old-growth trees,
the sandy earth. Here, deep in the green,
you find shelter in darkness. A man
strips to his firm nakedness, washes clean
by the creek, burns old clothes, stands
in the muggy air, waiting for his skin
to dry before he dons his robes, starts
to dance, cursing out of him the din
of betrayals and hexes. He feels his heart's
chaos. He knows the language of the dead,
hears the old bones stirring on the calm seabed.
2
After the crowding of trees and bush, after
the heavy stench of bodies breathing in a dark
shack, after the heavy clouds hammer
hard on our heads in this storm season, after the barks
of hounds closing in, the report of gunfire
(the hunters and the hunted), after the fenced
in breathlessness of this farm boy's fear,
he looks for the open fields of cotton. Dense
avenues frighten him. Avoid those, avoid
too the mountains too morose for laughter.
He finds peace in the sweet-smelling green
of fresh-mown ballparks, their order, how a voice
carries for yards without returning, everything clean
as a new morning before the body recalls
its weight. He seeks now the absence of walls.
3
This entanglement of limbs; in deep August,
everything grows dark with heat; the swamp
smells of rotting flesh and the stewing lust
of youth trying to return to the cramped
enclosure of all beginnings. From here
everything is shadow and ghosts. The body
going ahead looks familiar. You follow, stare
ahead, trying to make out the features muddied
by the dusk. For decades after, this will be
your constant nightmare, the fleeing form,
the question hanging over you, you dumbly
following, the bloody flesh underfoot, the storm
overhead, the distance between knowing
and constant fear, your soft heart hardening.
4
After you have broken your father with your hands,
killing is easy. The killing itself is hard — bodies
are solid things, they don't break easy, they stand
most blows, but eventually they grow weary,
give up, lose all their fight. It is the labor
that is hard, but to kill, the thought of it —
after you've heard your father beg, holler
for your mercy; after you have made him crap
himself for fear of you — that part is easy.
Just a matter of time before some fool
will walk into your rage and find no mercy
on the other side. It's just a matter of a tool
swung right, and death happens. In your head
it's like breathing, since everything's already dead.
5
The penitent can feel the silk of sweat
under his arms, the funk of manhood
after labor; he has already learned the beat
of desire, the clamor of hunger in his blood.
The penitent is pointed to the west
where the dense forests hoard deep fears
and the whoop of crackers beating their chests
at the blooding of deer, and sometimes the fears
of a wayward negro caught up in lies.
Deep in the forest, the elders say, you will
find your truth. This penitent learns to fly
over the overgrown paths, to stand still
and listen for the calm voice of God
in the wind, the markings in the sky like blood.
6
There is always someone in the shadows
ahead, slipping in and out of light.
The artist can lose his way in these groves
of ancient trees, circling back, trying to fight
the urge to return to the clearing. He looks
for light, the way rays break through
the babel of leaves and branches;
and soon there is only the dull blue
of peace where the shadow launches
into a dance of welcome. The artist
paints a spirit-filled green prayer, lost
in the consuming and unsettling bliss
of recognition, the canvas growing
into a pathfinder, the sun falling.
Hitter
You chop enough wood, handle cows and drag
horses, make a farm; understand the rhythm
of seasons; study the sky for each change
of wind to teach you whether your next
year will be lean with starving; take the blows
on your skin; learn to build a fence, dig
the hole, shape the timber into neat
cylinders to line for miles the limits
of your universe. Your body understands
the value of food; the falling that makes
you learn to stand firm, your thighs
clumps of sturdiness. Give me the piece
of shaped willow, let me hold it like
an ax and swing against the wind;
I can make a ball rise into the sky,
feel the breath of power through me,
this gift of callused fingers and the rhythm
of the wind lining up against me;
this is the art I learn in the dawn,
while my body heaves and settles
the swoop of the ax through the air
to find that growing wedge in the wood,
the efficiency of slaughter, the thorough
unheralded act of order: this is the art
of a hitter. All sound, the rhythmic thuds,
the cluck of chickens, the train's hooting,
the trucks grumbling towards the north,
eating out the highway away from these
moribund fields, the flat loud harmonies
of the dust-bowl church in the valley,
my child's persistent wail, the women
calling my name, the crude, unfettered
howl of a crowd finding something
to praise despite the hunger and fear —
all sound rests on my damp skin
like a blanket of dust, and when
the soft sweet spot finds the ball
rotating before me, as if charmed,
and when it lifts and is carried
beyond us all, there is a leap of the heart,
the reassurance we all must feel
to see a man's body working as it ought.
Spring
Locked up in Pittsburgh in April;
the gutters are thawing. You know
summer will stink like death,
and the time will stretch.
Sober now, you remember.
In April the clouds are still
heavy and there is so little light.
A big-armed black man misses
things when the month turns:
the scent of mown grass,
the sweet raw of hot dogs
boiling, stale sweat released
in humid changing rooms,
the white of dogwoods
against the sudden greening,
the clogged-up nose
making whiskey a healer,
the heavy scent of week-old
lard browning whiting,
the sharpness of mustard
soaked pulled pork.
These are the things that brought
you here to do this time:
a woman's laughter,
the feel of a man's flesh
giving to the thrust of steel.
The Things You Forget in Jail
Mostly words that when spoken will soften
your chest, make you think of other mornings
ahead; you forget them slowly, but
the dull pale wood panels, the rust
in the hinges, the thick scent of old food,
men's crotches and heavy-duty cake soap:
they fill the space of words you once
had; these new words become
your music: foot, sore, rat, booze,
crap, shank, cigarette, runs, anything to make
you hard. Mostly the names of things
that grow without you: words of an old
woman in a gingham skirt catching
dirt and the leeching of prickles
and weeds; names she offered with
a pointed finger, then talking the name
in her fingers, she said, "Smell," and
you did, and you traveled to a place
that understands the sweet heave
of stomach waking up with hope;
gingko, magnolia, honeysuckle,
camellia, azalea, wisteria, the music
of mint, ginger root, garlic, sweet
onion; the texture of soil
steamed in crap, the sweet promise
of good earth; you forget that you
could walk through a forest and find
meaty mushrooms, or the flower
to fill your mouth with sweet petals.
Mostly, you forget that you have
forgotten until one day you look
at the callus in your palms
and ask yourself what you know,
and you know that you have
forgotten the curve of a woman's
belly, the iron funk of her thighs,
the tiny lumps on nipples; the light
in her fingers, the taste of her skin,
the slippery oil of her desire.
And you know you knew nothing
and this is the truth of your hopelessness
now — how much you have forgotten,
how much you must forget
to find peace with the body's need.
Stop Time
Stop time: There is a grunt in the gap.
Stop time: There is a head nod in the gap.
Stop time: There is a hallelujah in the gap.
Stop time: There is a shudder in the gap.
Stop time: There is a well in the gap.
Stop time: There is a hiccup in the gap.
Stop time: Got a foot shuffle in the gap.
Stop time: There is a bright light in the gap.
Stop time: There is a breath in the gap.
In the congregation, the rigid law
of time is shattered by that sudden
stop, that breaking of all order,
making someone stumble if they
don't know the path; making a body
wonder at the space left, the emptiness
sudden so, sudden so, sudden so.
In the congregation, in that moment
when the handclaps and shouting,
the crowded-in room, and the sweat
eat away at the talc, a body
finds itself in the gap, and this
dance that lifts a big clumsy
man to his feet, makes him
turn, makes him jump, makes
him holler Everything, louder
and louder, Everything! And here
in this chapel the world is held
in the cradle of a song, and for this
one moment he knows how to walk,
how to ride through the world, how stop
time is the music of our resistance,
and the song is the healing of all pain.
Stop time: There is a praise God in the gap
Stop time: There is a hmmmm in the gap
Stop time: There is a Jesus in the gap
Stop time: There is a yes, suh in the gap
Stop time: There is a hmmmm in the gap.
Man
Clean-headed men, men who sit in that easy
sprawl of ownership, loose pants bundled
fabric around the balls, jockeys so you see
the print of their dicks that have walked
through so many thick-grassed fields,
chopping as if that is all a dick is made
to do; men who have ritualized the sipping
of brown liquor; men who've turned fool
from chasing after fresh pussy; men
full of stories about being drunk, about
how they pissed themselves on the spot;
men who know the value of a woman
who lays out their starched drill pants and softly
laundered cotton shirts; men who slap
Old Spice on their faces after a smooth
shave; men who shake their heads and say,
"You don't know nothing about what I've seen,
what I've done, what I've been through ...";
men who know that they are always
doing better than their sons-of-bitches
fathers who were bums, who drowned drunk
in Mississippi, who gave them nothing
but a fat thigh and a big nose, and that
hint of evil and shine in the hair; men not
scared of death but scared of dying;
men with arms still stone-hard, fists
black-knuckled with scars, men who will
take you out if you try; men who know
where their pistols lie at all times;
these men, in their fedoras, their
polished shoes, the Florsheims, burnished
with patience — the layers of Kiwi,
the soft wet cloth, the waterproofing
blackening, the whip of a dry rag,
the smiling gleaming of the toe,
the smooth manliness of the sides,
the quick dab of black over the scuffs;
these are the men we are talking
about. These are the men we learn
to loathe, these are the men whose sins
are legion, these are the men who kneel
at the altar, these are the men who count
the collection, these are the men who guard
the Lord, these are the deacon men, lately
saved, these fathers of many, these silent
keepers of secrets: these are the men we praise.
Two Plants
I plant these seeds among thickets
of plants whose names I do not know;
I dig quick and hard, turn the soil —
twisting pink worms purpling on their
topside dance in my handful
of dark loam, so rich, so damp,
so warm. I plow, I level, then plow
again, picking out stones, lumps
of cement, old spoons, rusted cans
and caked-up pieces of paper, I plant
these seeds despite the crowding
of vegetation whose names I don't
know. I wait for rain, wait for light
to break through the shadowing trees,
wait for a hint — for pale rubbery
green shoots, for the promise
of life, something that ruled
my days on the farm, my days
on somebody else's land; my days
counting the weeks, the months
before harvest, before this backbreaking
labor for the man.
One plant breaks out, loud, boisterous,
first, but crippled. It limps along,
always struggling to live, always
ugly, always loyal to the soil;
it is the broken creature, just living,
just living in the yard. The second
breaks soil fully made, grows
stiff-backed upwards, asks for
nothing and gets everything,
pleads for nothing, gets blessings;
this diabolic plant has forgotten
the touch of my fingers, scratching
the soil to make a bed. This too
is my seed. They will poison
me before I understand them,
before I understand me in them.
Order of Things
For Rose
When a voice brings order, you bow;
not because you have no choice,
when you have been a woman since
eleven years old, finding your food,
picking your clothes, braiding
your hair, being big woman, counting
pennies, planning like next year
is tomorrow; when you have to build
your own gate, see before and behind,
look out for yourself; when the story
stops with you, and your father
is a story you were told, your mother
is the strung-out, skin and bone,
broken-down woman who you feed
and bathe and build a fence around;
when nobody has been there to answer
to, when for years everything depends
on you; well, when a man, thick
necked, sinew armed, hard as nails,
seen the world, known the feel
of batons on his back, knows his mind
and the minds of people walking
towards him at night, when a man
like that looks in your eyes and tells
you, you the kind of woman, needs
a dress of class; you the kind
of woman need shoes of leather, soft
on your feet; you the kind of woman
shouldn't be worrying of tomorrow;
you the kind a woman should be
able to put your head against
his chest and weep, a deep weeping;
well, you will come to rest in that voice,
and you will start to say things like "a woman
needs a man to make her feel
like a woman." And when he pushes
himself in you, and shouts out
before falling soft and broken
on you, you will know you are the kind
of woman who can cherish a man
for what he gives you that you
never had before, never at all.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from City of Bones by Kwame Dawes. Copyright © 2017 Kwame Dawes. Excerpted by permission of Northwestern University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Part OneStealing Home Cross Roads Death: Baron Samedi Open Spaces Hitter Spring The Things you Forget in Jail Stop Time Man Two Plants Order of Things Before You Man Smell Cross Burning Plot Rose What God Says Creek Détente Work On Deck What’s Left Adultery Constancy De-mobbed Journey Man Celebrity She Debt Trumpet Hopes Time Creed Part TwoJust Play the Damned Tune Past Fifty Thieving Elevator Avery The Burden In Waiting To Buy a Pair of Shoes Just Play the Damned Tune In the Band The Dance Making a Deal News from Harlem Initiate The Lost Tribe- Stones
- The Language of Birds
- Memory
- Arrival
- For Frederick Douglass
- For Harriet Tubman
- For Jack Johnson
- For W.E.B. Dubois
- For Paul Laurence Dunbar
- For Zora Neal Hurston
- City
- A-Sea
- Mother
- Stole
- Iron
- Ginger
- Flack
- Comfort
- City of Bones
- Head North
- Mother Ola and the Poet
- Parenting
- Starvation
- 1838
- Haiti
- Stono’s Ghosts
- A Woman’s Curse
- Engine
- Sweetness
- Book