Editors Note: As any poet worth they salt knows sometimes when you're doing a 30/30 life gets in the way. Our esteemed scribe has been driving a group of unruly undergrads across country and so we've been without his glorious voice for a few days. But Danez is back like the (actual) Harlem Shake. We'll post a few a day to catch up. Keep reading. Let's get it. -Nate Marshall, Asst. Poetry Editor, Muzzle "The night my father left, I wet the bed. It was the first time since being trained not to. I was four, and everybody I loved was drowning." -from Inheritance It’s amazing what can happen in the time it takes to blink. Stars cease to exist, babies are born, 2 kids have their first kiss, and poets grow exponentially. I had the pleasure of going to the same high school as Hieu, where we both were involved in a social justice theatre program that also had a strong background in spoken word. I remember Hieu being good, definitely one of the better 15 year olds doing their thing at the time, but when I left for college and came back 2 years later to see Hieu perform, I was not prepared for the poet he had become. Hieu seems to get better by the minute, he is a poet with a complete grasp on what what he is trying to do in his work, using his brilliant hand and voice to navigate sexuality, culture, & family in such a way that I often find myself with one hand in the air to praise the glory of his line, while the other clutches my stomach, trying to make sure that my body doesn’t come undone. Hieu, like many of the poets who are on this list, is making Patricia Smith proud. He is a poet in every sense of the word. His work seeks to do something new, even if improving upon something that has been done, and it sings brilliantly on the page, as well as it does on stage (don’t get me started on the majesty of Hieu’s performance. Simple, to the point, and not a thing un-needed or out of place). Hieu can stand up with any ‘page poet’ around, and he can also deliver his work to the air, the way poetry was intended to be. Hieu Nguyen, who will be the face you see when you google the word YES, is someone you need to get into. Do yourself a favor and go discover his work, you’ll thank me later. -Danez Smith Editors Note: As any poet worth they salt knows sometimes when you're doing a 30/30 life gets in the way. Our esteemed scribe has been driving a group of unruly undergrads across country and so we've been without his glorious voice for a few days. But Danez is back like the (actual) Harlem Shake. We'll post a few a day to catch up. Keep reading. Let's get it. -Nate Marshall, Asst. Poetry Editor, Muzzle "Once a grassland, now a wasteland barren by, a jealous tide, swept away a history, a genesis of memories of you and I" -from Chapter 3: The Hatchet So, technically, Jennah Bell is not a poet. She is a singer-songwriter with a voice that sounds like whatever angels sneak a listen to behind God’s infinite back. But that songwriter part is a title she takes very seriously. Jennah is not here for the ‘baby, baby, baby’ lyrics of your favorite, recycled top forty hit, she is here to improve upon the masterful form of Dylan, Nina, Prince, and Joplin. I mean, for heaven’s sake, the woman once said ‘My strength was born a bastard’s steed.’ What? Who says that? When is the last time you heard something that good in a poem? Jenna is one of the writer’s that keeps me going. Listening to her makes me know that there are new words and sentences afoot to discover, that we have not written it all down yet. I have to respect the poetry of her verses, as she demands it. This is not music you can put on and not pay attention too. These are songs that grab you by the neck, albeit softly, and whisper dark, smirk-worthy secrets in your ear. These are songs that build you with their lyrics and shatter you with their voice. These are songs that make you want to be still, to let the wind do whatever it wants for a while. I am here for these songs. These are songs with arms and too many mouths, these are songs of pain & discovery & fear & joy. These are human songs. These are masterpieces. I think that as poets, we cannot exist unless we are gaining energy from the other art forms around us. If that is to be true, Jennah Bell is my spirit singer. I let her guide me into the darkness every time she offers up her gift. Folks, if you don’t already know, let her guide you too. -Danez Smith Editors Note: As any poet worth they salt knows sometimes when you're doing a 30/30 life gets in the way. Our esteemed scribe has been driving a group of unruly undergrads across country and so we've been without his glorious voice for a few days. But Danez is back like the (actual) Harlem Shake. We'll post a few a day to catch up. Keep reading. Let's get it. -Nate Marshall, Asst. Poetry Editor, Muzzle “I realize: I do not need the moon to dance in darkness. Skin absorbed sunlight and held it, so this ribbon of climax can exert its faint glow—just enough to make visible the iris of your eyes.” -from Moonless Ocean Vuong makes me question whether or not my bones exist. I read his work (Go check out Burning) and all of a sudden I’m on the floor, unsure of how I got there, but certain of what sent me. Like my failed bones, Ocean’s work seeks to take that which is hard, be it sex, family, violence, war, immigration, and show the soft meat of it. This isn’t to say that he doesn’t acknowledge that which is unbreakable or resistant, but he was a talent of cracking open any steel exterior and showing us the gentle dust inside. Ocean lives us to his namesake. He is vast, he is deep, he is blue (in a happy, blue bird way, a pining for sex way, a lady sings the blues way, all the blues), he is filled with so many things we know by name which we adore and fear, but the depths of him are filled with mystery after mystery, some with brilliant light, some with teeth. Ocean brings me life. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a voice like his, so free even within the confines of his world. His world sings with images both surprising and surprisingly real. There are moments when I feel transported to another realm, a place so new it does not yet have a name, while there are other times when I am suddenly fully aware of the room I’m in, the people around & not around, my blood, my skin, the little drum that dares to beat in me. Damn you Ocean. Damn you for knowing the tender side of a fist, the need to need, the horror and wonder of leaving. Damn you for knowing the exact string to pull, the precise note to hit in order to summon tears, moans, and joy. Everybody, if you don’t already know, I give you an Ocean to live by. In return, give your bones over to Ocean. -Danez Smith Editors Note: As any poet worth they salt knows sometimes when you're doing a 30/30 life gets in the way. Our esteemed scribe has been driving a group of unruly undergrads across country and so we've been without his glorious voice for a few days. But Danez is back like the (actual) Harlem Shake. We'll post a few a day to catch up. Keep reading. Let's get it. -Nate Marshall, Asst. Poetry Editor, Muzzle “I learned this right hook here when I was only six. Bitch, please. I’m so real my hair is going gray” - from If My Housemate Fucks With Me I Would Get So Real (Audition Tape Take 1) Morgan Parker is a gangsta, y’all. I mean that in the thuggist way possible. Her work is not concerned with your conventions, your feelings, what you have deemed ‘acceptable’ for a poet to poem (verb) about. Why? It appears because she is having fun with this here art. Morgan writes about her personal connection to Kate Hudson, about her potential as a cast mate on the Real World, about the Jupiter eclipse and even there she hides work about race, pop culture and the fantastically dangerous world of drugs. Morgan very much is active in the realm of her generation. Why not let your poems soak in reality TV shows and celebrity culture? If art is to be a mirror for society, or vice versa, then Morgan’s work is covered with looking glass bouncing back light and life in every direction. This work is as intelligent and smart-assed as it is real and biting as it is fun and light as it is necessary and forward. This is a poet who has figured it out. Morgan’s work invites us to play inside it, but to also be critical of ourselves in that funhouse full of stretched out, widened, shortened, flattened, and eventually offered a bottle of wine. I want to drink with Morgan’s poems, they seem like they get into some wild stuff on any good Monday night. I want to live in their world, which is my world, but through their lens. It is brilliant that through her work, Morgan does not attempt to denounce the culture of today as many do, but rather she accepts it and figures out how to make it work for her, how to carve a space out fit to sit and belly laugh in. So you, with the soul and the brain, if you care about either one of those, go get into Morgan Parker and see what you really look like. -Danez Smith “i’ve looked for the enemy in everyone i love. unable to sheathe my weapons, i’ve dug hooves in. someone i don't want to call god draws a line in crushed ore, dares me to step over.” -from the unrequited, its aftermath Did you just read that? Do you see what this womyn just said? I. Am. Here. For. That. I am tempted to go back to sleep, wait for the sun to back track & start over again. I am tempted to stop writing this because those lines make me want to unravel whatever tread is struggling to hold me together. Hafizah Geter’s s work has a tendency to do that for me. This is the poet you expect to win a knife fight, and to do so smiling. Her work is to the point, bare of purposeless ornamentation and dazzling in there nude form. It is the act of a human undressing for the world and covering no scars, it is the act of stripping down not only to the skin, but to the bones & blood, it is the act of truth (cause truth is most definitely a verb) that makes Hafizah so remarkably humble with her poems & I find myself bowing to their grace and humanity. These are poems, award winning for a reason, make you sit down, try to recall your knees. These are poems that question the spine with there seriousness and play. These poems just plain make me weak. I need some wine and some good blues after I read them. I need to let the quiet say my name for a little while. I need Hafizah to keep delivering the golden air of her writing, to keep gracing us with her open armed and akimboed honesty. -Danez Smith when you kiss me i am reduced to my most. basic. elements several buckets of water a trash bag of carbon a shot glass packed with salt i become the empty space between all this matter -from the handsome phalangesist’s lament I like to imagine a young Sam Sax playing in the mud, finding all kinds of hidden dangers lurking in the wet soot and making them his tools. Covered in earth, I see the young Sam building a house of needles, a hot air balloon with used condoms, a prince out of brown glass. By a young Sam, I mean the Sam that exist in this day, I mean the kid in him that has so much fun being dirty. Sam is dirty. A bad boy. A naughty tongue in the dark. He work leaves you wet with your own humanity, wading through a valley of your own spit and whatever other substances make you cringe just as much as they make you alive. Sam is soft in his general ratchetness. Yes, I said ratchetness. His work does not shy away from the crude or the gross, and it handles such in a masterful manner, often tender and always with teeth, echoing the voices of D. A. Powell and Ginsberg. Sam will indeed make you howl. And how could we not? In his readings & his workshops, Sam is so insanely sweet and enduring, he pulls you into his lair and doesn’t let you out without leaving smiling & damp. Sam is the temple for those of us who worship, and I’m not necessarily talking about any one God or any God at all. Sam praises the small and smudged lights of the world, leaving no thing unworthy of it’s name, and in that murky, holy testimony, Sam Sax proves himself more than worthy of his own. -Danez Smith I am Winona I am my mother’s first mistake I am thirteen or fourteen washing blood off of things I considered hitting my brother with. I am laughing and rejoicing in my brother’s bloodthirst. -from I am Winona Full disclosure I hate stage names. For Poetic Chocolate Breeze and Sammy Da Poet I have a bouquet of nothingness, unless they work. Well, unless the poet lives up to it and makes it not a stage name but a new name just as valid, a marker of ancestral ritual or self delivered birth. Britteney is black. I’m not talking about skin or history. I’m not talking about darkness. I’m talking about her meter and demeanor, her attitude and sway, how she stuns a room with an unapologetic brilliance, the way her poems walk around fully aware of the creator’s name. Britteney is a rose. A Chicago rose. Sometimes all thorn and no petal. Always beautiful. And a Blacrose at that. Impeccably rare. To read Britteney’s work is to hold that rose in your palm, thorns bare, and be forced to confront your blood. Her poetry is violent as it is tender, is hostile as it is holy, continuing the vital pulse of the memoir of Maya Angelou and the work of Toi Derricotte. And in the tradition of those great women, Britteney is just as dedicated to community and teaching as she is to her writing. And ain’t that refreshing? To know that in our culture of ego and I, there are people who still live for the purpose of We? I’ve seen Britteney interact with her students. I’ve seen her interact with family and friends. I’ve seen the thorns come off and the petals wrap around anyone in need. That might be the blackest thing about Britteney, her willingness to love. It is that same love for others and for self that makes it impossible to separate her relationships from her stanzas, her prayers from her line breaks, her woes from her verse. I think you need to get into Britteney’s work immediately. It is urgent for you and the rawness of your humanity. But Britteney? Check out her work or not, she’s gonna keep on. And she don’t give no fuck. -Danez Smith & Nate Marshall “I glanced at my grandmother talking to me. I saw my history and could hear Japanese, but I inhaled America and the doctors tricked into thinking English was my native language ” -from Home Praise Bull City. Praise any boy who so becomes his hometown in the most gorgeous of ways. George “G” Yamazawa Jr. is a writer of horns and stampeding velocity. He doesn’t try to tame the animal, rather, he perfects it. G is also a city within himself. He is a writer negotiating neighborhoods in the Carolinas and in Japan as if they we’re just ‘round the corner from each other, and who is to tell him that they are not? G makes oceans, time, generational differences and bridges travel great flights on the wings of his language at amazingly sonic speeds. He writes of culture in ways that would make Audre Lorde weep for how honestly and royally he honors all parts of himself and his family. When G, Individual World Poetry Slam Finalist, speaks of the traditions his family has passed down, the weight of the word ‘junior’ on a young person who is the first step in the dream of their parents hopeful, heavy songs it is in such a uniquely southern way that I shutter. It is a new standard he writes , a remixed tradition demanding us to recognize how long it has been here (centuries) and how new it is (now!). And it will floor you with that demand, with its voice. G, like many more writers today, found his way to the page through the microphone. I don’t want to debate spoken word & page poetry differences here because I never want to debate the difference between poetry and itself, but I do want to say this: when you come to G’s poetry, sing it. Give it back to the air and watch it dance the walls of your mouth. Let him live in the wind around you and you will not be short of amazed, Oh, and did I mention that homie is the ill MC? Yeah… about that. Sometimes God says ‘let there be talents’ and folks get a little greedy in line. G Yamazawa was a glutton that day and I am so thankful for it. -Danez Smith ‘my father could have been a traveling salesmans. i could have been born at any doorstep.’ -from new york craigslist > personals > missed connections> Heaven must be missing an angel, because Megan Falley is somewhere plucking his feathers and writing poems with them. Oh, the ink? Her own blood. Ok, that image might be intense, but that is the intensity this daughter (metaphorical folks) of Sexton and Ginsberg brings to the page. Her work is dazzled by images so sweetly sinister and raw it will make you wanna sing and shutter all at once (click on the link above to see what she does with candy). Megan is a storm in a sundress and we will deal with it. Her poems are rich with lightning and the spells that conjure it. Speaking of spells, have you read After The Witch Hunt yet? In her debut poetry collection, Megan proves that she is here to stay, and that her voice, power, love, strength, and skill will not be ignored. The poems in that being of strange, hot magic that we will concede to calling a book, each poem demands we pay attention, that we come to it gentle and allow it to muscle us. Literally, I put the book down and I had to run around my house a little y’all, if only to remember freedom as Megan so masterfully made me do. I have never seen her write, but I imagine that doors unlock, windows unhinge, bars turn to wind and chains slip into dust. The poems in After The Witch Hunt and a lot of the work I’ve read and heard elsewhere from Megan are a fierce attempt at freedom (from self, from danger, from sorrow, from pain, from what must be fled), and the urgency of those poems makes my heart throw itself into the walls of my chest, trying to break out and meet the soul that has made it flutter so. Well, Heart, meet Megan Falley. Reader (for you are my heart), if you don’t already know, meet light. -Danez Smith ‘Small with wild legs, the boy stole your eyes the day he was born.’ -from Insomniac If you ask me what I know to be true in this world, I will tell you a couple of things: God is real, White Castles is the forbidden fruit of angels, and Saeed Jones. Period. Saeed is truth with arms, legs, a fabulously warm smile, and a pen fiercer than Beyonce’s current weave. Whether it is his prose (which you can find everywhere from Ebony Magazine to Buzzfeed, where he is editor of their LGBT page) or his fiction (which got him published in Best of the Net 2012) or his poetry (His chapbook, When the Only Light is Fire, is for the Gods! Do you hear me?), there is no going wrong with Mr. Jones. His verse comes to you humbly with all it’s blades in plain view. Reading Saeed’s work is like getting sliced by your lover, out of love, and still being in love after. I feel like he drags me through the mud and the fire, and just when I’m about to cuss him out for putting me through it, I realize he’s given me an armor of earth. I always get up from reading feeling wonderfully raw and new, so sure of my humanity and the weakness that I need to better love tenderly. And he fine (have you seen pictures of this human? He is sunshine on toast!). I am thankful that Saeed Jones is on Earth at the same time as me. He is bringing life to writing world unlike that which I’ve ever seen. He is a force. He is a blessing. He is worthy of all the snaps in my hand. Saeed, Shante you stay. Reader (yes, you!) Sashay away… to the rest of the internet and go get into Saeed Jones! -Danez Smith |
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