[INSERT] BOY DANEZ SMITH
P O EMS
The next time someone tells you spoken word poets can’t make poems come to life on the page, send them to Danez Smith’s [ I N S E R T ] B O Y,
a remarkable debut collection that puts that tired
notion to bed once and for all. In these poems, Smith opens the reader to a world of desire, longing, and deep mourning that picks up where his brothers Hopkins and Whitman left off. Startling in their formal range and virtuosity, these poems interrogate the ways the body not only inhabits but actually becomes public and private space: . . . tonight, I am no one’s pet, maybe an animal, wounded & hungry for revenge or sympathy but what’s the difference? Danez Smith lays down the gauntlet for all of us to speak our deepest truths with more elegance, more ferocity, and almost more beauty than a reader can bear. —G A B R I E L L E
C A L V O C O R E S S I , author of
Apocalyptic Swing the
and poetry editor f or
Los Angeles Review of Books
Danez Smith is the crown prince of innovation and ferocity, a stunningly original voice that chooses not to recognize or respect those vexing artistic boundaries. Here is forte unleashed, an elicit glimpse of poetry’s yet-to-be-turned page, a reason to stomp and romp in your church shoes. Hallelujah is an understatement. —PATRICIA
S M I T H , author of
Jimmy Savannah
and
Shoulda Been
Blood Dazzler
[I NS E R T ] BOY
[insert] c over art: interior art:
boy
“man
“the
© 2014
w i t h c at ”
by danez smith
© 201 4
silence’s lover”
j o n at h a n c h a s e
© 201 4
j o n at h a n c h a s e
cover and book design by alban fischer
a l l r i g h t s r e s e r v e d . n o p a r t o f t h i s b o o k m ay b e r e p r o d u c e d w i t h o u t t h e p u b l i s h e r ’ s w r i t t e n p e r m i s s i o n , e x c e p t f o r b r i e f q u o tat i o n s f o r r e v i e w s .
first edition, isbn
2014
978-1-936919-28-4
p r i n t e d i n t h e u n i t e d s tat e s o f a m e r i c a
published by yesyes books
4904
ne
29 t h
portl and, or
av e
97211
yesyesbooks.com
k m a s u l l i va n , p u b l i s h e r h e at h e r b r o w n , p u b l i c i s t jill kolong owski, m anaging editor s t e v i e e d wa r d s , a c q u i s i t i o n s e d i t o r j o a n n b a l i n g i t , a s s i s ta n t e d i t o r a m b e r r a m b h a r o s e , a s s i s ta n t e d i t o r r o b m a c d o n a l d , c o - e d i t o r , freq u e nc ies m a r k d e r k s , f i c t i o n e d i t o r , v in y l p o etry p h i l l i p b . w i l l i a m s , p o e t r y e d i t o r , v in y l p o etry alban fischer, graphic designer j o h n m o r ta r a , s o c i a l m e d i a e d i t o r a n d w e b d e s i g n
for the Smiths & the Pattersons who held me up & kept me going
[black] BLACK BOY BE
/ 15
TH E BLACK BOY & THE BU L L ET
/ 16
ALTE RNATE NAME S FOR BLAC K B O Y S FOR BLACK BOYS
F****T OR W HE N THE FRONT G O ES UP GE NE S IS S Y
/ 17
/ 18 / 23
/ 24
& M Y M O THE R NOTICE S S OME ONE E LS E ’S BL O O D O N M Y HA ND S A FAILE D ATTE MPT AT CRE AT I O N
/ 27
/ 29
[papa’s lil’] ALL SPRING, WE’D WATCH GRANDPA RUB HIS KNEE & COMPLAIN ABOUT RAIN / 33 “AN OLD MAN COUGHS AND HACKS UP A DEAD BODY, I THINK IT'S HIS FORMER SELF” / 35 SWAYLESS / 36 MY GRANDMA USED TO TELL MY GRANDFATHER JUST GO TO HELL / 37 TO MY GRANDFATHER’S PROSTATE CANCER / 38 SHIT / 40
[ruined] THE ROAD KILL & MY BODY / 45 HEALING: ATTEMPT #1 / 46 HEALING: ATTEMPT #2 / 47 UNTITLED AND ABOUT SADNESS / 48 HEALING: ATTEMPT #3 / 49 MAYBE THEY’RE NOT HOLY, MAYBE THEY’RE JUST YOUR HANDS / 50 HEALING: ATTEMPT #4 / 51 HEALING: ATTEMPT #5 / 52
[rent] THE BUSINESS OF SHADOWS / 55 10 RENTBOY COMMANDMENTS OR THEN THE WHITE GUY CALLS YOU A N****R / 56 MAIL / 58 CRAIGSLIST HOOK-UPS / 61 I’LL SPARE YOU ANOTHER POEM ABOUT MY MOUTH / 64 OBEY / 65
[lover] A LIFE AGO, I WAS A LAKE / 69 FROM MY WINDOW / 71 WARMING / 73 DANCING (IN BED) WITH WHITE MEN (WITH DREADS) / 74 POEM WHERE I BE A DOE & YOU, BY EFFECT, ARE A WOLF / 76 CUE THE GANGSTA RAP WHEN MY KNEES BEND / 78 POEM WHERE I BE & YOU JUST MIGHT / 79
POEM WHERE I BE A HOUSE, HENCE, YOU LIVE IN ME / 81 RAW / 83 I CAST OUT MY TONGUE LIKE A KEY / 85 POEMS IN WHICH ONE BLACK MAN HOLDS ANOTHER / 87
[again] SONG OF THE WRECKAGE / 93 KING THE COLOR OF SPACE, TOWER OF MOLASSES & MARROW / 109 ON GRACE / 111
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS / 115
“…It was so outrageous you couldn’t go any further & so you had to find a way to use it.” —james
b a l d w i n o n b e i n g p o o r , b l a c k , a n d g ay
[BL ACK ]
16
BL ACK BO Y BE like ocean hid behind a grain of sand like a village ablaze & dreaming of spit like ashy hands bathed in blue flame like a pillar of bones sealed by honey like a mouthless prayer, a lost glory like a gold watch slowed by blood like blood all over everything: the reeboks, the tube socks, the air & the mother’s hands like a nothing at all, & ain’t that something? ain’t that the world?
17
T HE BL ACK BO Y & T H E BULLE T one is hard & the other tries to be one is fast & the other is faster one is loud & one is a song with one note & endless rest one’s whole life is a flash both spend their life trying to find someone to hold them bloodwarm & near both spark the same debate some folks want to protect them/some think we should just get rid of the damn things all together.
18
A L T ER NAT E NAM E S F O R BLAC K BOYS 1. smoke above the burning bush 2. nemesis of summer night 3. first son of soil 4. coal awaiting spark & wind 5. guilty until proven dead 6. oil heavy starlight 7. monster until proven ghost 8. gone 9. boy 10. phoenix who forgets to un-ash 11. god of shovels & black veils 12. what once passed for kindling 13. fireworks at dawn 14. brilliant, shadow colored coral 15. (I thought to leave this blank but who am I to name us nothing?) 16. prayer who learned to bite & sprint 17. a mother’s joy & clutched breath
19
F O R BL ACK BO YS you wade through your people’s gun smoke from a battle nobody ever named more than struggle. white folks are afraid when you speak. hot wound where your mouth should be where you see God:
they see tin man made from prison bars gorilla trained to shoot.
you are a heavenless thing to them, wings made of pork bone a halo grown tired & fat tight around your neck.
20
How do you describe a son set course to casket from birth? The grim reaper is named Ray-Ray. He’s your cousin, has tears inked into his cheek because no one told him he was beautiful enough to cry. He has a talent for making ghost.
21
came out the womb obituary scribed on the backside of your birth certificate. you’re nothing new. they’ve seen this before. you’re a rerun, a dull flash in this earth. lightning in a ghost town. Mama told you to hit anybody who hits you first. you walked outside throwing fist at air. this is how you fight the world back. vaseline making a diamond of your skin & nobody saying you’re pretty. grow up, throw knuckle & metal into boys down the block or round the corner. race to make each other more ugly, less diamond, more dead. a cold black boy body is a prophecy fulfilled. you have always been a dying thing.
22
Sean Bell got filled with a war’s worth of lead & the marriage rates went up Bo Morrison got killed with his hands up & people invested in garages Oscar Grant was slain, belly pressed to the floor & I need a Tide-To-Go pen for this stain Trayvon Martin got his light drained & everybody tasted the rainbow Latasha Harlins died over OJ & I still need a pack of cigarettes from the store 10 Black girls went missing & you found your keys 10 Black boys died & mama said kids these days 10 Black boys got shot outside the schoolhouse & everybody got one extra fry at lunch
23
I am sorry I have no happy poems about the ashy hallelujah of knees. Whenever I open my mouth, ghosts raid my poor tongue demanding names. I say Devonte & my mouth drips stray braids. I say Keshawn & vomit gold teeth. It’s always like this, my one good song still unclaimed at the morgue, my hands try to clap & end up cupping a skull.
24
BLACK BOY BE
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like ocean hid behind a grain of sand like a village ablaze & dreaming of spit like ashy hands bathed in blue flame like a pillar of bones sealed by honey like a mouthless prayer, a lost glory like a gold watch slowed by blood like blood all over everything: the reeboks, the tube socks, the air & the mother’s hands like a nothing at all, & ain’t that something? ain’t that the world?
Danez Smith is a poet of the body: I’ve always been all tongue & no brain but also a poet of embodiment. The poems of
[INSERT] BOY
have need of the body—desire it
and lament its mortality—but over and again they assert Smith’s seemingly religious belief that every sound the body makes, every word and wail, is only possible through connection to some other plane of existence. Shall we say heaven? The soul? Our ancestors? Shall we say, as Smith does, I wasn’t in/my right mind, I was barely in my body at all? This is a lovely, voice-driven book, singing high notes sharp as a switchblade. —J E R I C H O B R O W N ,
author of
Please a n d The New Testament