Wesleyan, 2023
daydreaming w/ Bob Arnold
November 8, 1945 Bisbee ~ May 19, 2025 Paris
A L I C E N O T L E Y I N T E R V I E W
Photograph by Nigel Beale / The Biblio File
The poem has come to speak to you
of things that are not yet there.
Escapade (51)
. . .come get a kiss from me,
I have plenty, put cool water in my mouth,
lodge the obscure in me, the heights,
and in your abundance ground
the unstable air, come to me, be devoured,
and assuage my
hideous, hideous, hideousness. . .
Escapade (54)
Nazareth, Pontacole, great disorders, punishment
Pruning shears where the sun shines, butterfly dried like a
fruit on exhibit, warmth, veranda, your cheeks are all red, school-
yards, an empty square on every floor.
You knock at my door on a rocking horse.
Escapade (55)
Take off your gardening gloves and come between my thighs.
They harbor more than one fold. A second.
The light. Our Eden is a meadow: still, like the calves.
Chante-Merle is jealous
of my long musculature.
Escapade (56)
Wind shifted from shoulder to shoulder
like a heavy backpack,
earth in flight in one corner of the rear-view mirror,
here I am, back in place.
The broken white of millstones. Your cry routs the phantoms.
I wear your clothes. Naked without my bracelet. And always come
to see you in the same dress and my mane like almond milk.
Escapade (57)
You make animals flee. You panic them with your voice.
It waits for me, mischievous: it waits for me despite the world.
A cut on the foot prevents me from fleeing
faster than the bullet you've made your target. Big
as a hairpin. Although. . .
A stride's distance between two bodies.
Escapade (58)
We call for the grand telescopes to see Venus
in front of the sun. A large pair of glasses
and aluminum foil.
What are we supposed to see? The shepherd's star. A day lasting
months. There the sky. There the books. The faces, a black room.
Escapade (59)
As a beast, I'm afraid of me.
Even in thought. A rubber band holds back my shirt and all sounds.
___________________
The Escapades
Marie-Noelle Agniau
World Poetry, 2024
translated by Jesse Hover Amar
Kansas City Blues, 1934
Coleman (Bean) Hawkins Hung Up
Seeing is believing, but hearing is a bitch.
Lester "Prez" Young
in '34 america partied wet again
& you didn't have to hide your booze
not that pendergast's kay cee
ever tried life dry
the Cherry Blossom
was the hot new spot
its japanese motif flashed
red & white flowers
in the wallpaper & in the kimonos
of the fine brown geishas who served
& flirted for tips
bill basie from jersey swung the house band
& when fletcher henderson & his boys
hit town they all fell by
& coleman "bean" hawkins
founder & absoloute monarch
of the tenor sax
made the dauntless error
of sitting in
bean didn't know the kay cee tenors
so they lined up on his ass
herschel evans
hawkins' texas tenor progeny
deep voiced & blowing blue note thunderstorms
stretched him all the way out
& would not be cut
next came the mighty ben "frog" webster
a peer coleman didn't know he had
whose breathy chain of azure dreams
fell gracefully out of each other
on their way from the root to the new
& then
o shit what winging hell is this?
lester young
sax cocked at 45 degrees
the cool voice that fired the hottest sounds
tone light enough to ride
across the room on clouds of smoke
five choruses to warm up but then
& then & then & then a new indigo lyric
flowed over the joint
without floor or ceiling
mary lou williams' sleep
was broken by frog webster's tap on her window
"wake up pussycat
coleman hawkins is hungup at the Cherry Blossom
& all the piano players are sweated out"
& there she found great bean in his singlet
shirt neatly folded on the chair
searching his horn for a lick
that would win this all night chase
he never found it
the music
never closed in '34 kansas city
Jim Crow
so there never can be a question of where you walk
you must get the hell off the sidewalk
if a white person approaches
elevators put you much too close to us
go to the freight lift as that is what you are
at the bus & train stations you will be in the colored waiting room
even if it costs us twice as much to maintain one
use the colored window at the post office
& callon the colored public telephone so we won't have
nigger earwax rubbing on our ears & nigger breath
laid near our mouths
if you reach an intersection before a white person
wait for the white car to go through before proceeding
& never pass a white driver on the road you arrogant bastard
any accident with a white driver is your fault as you know
never speak first to a white person or contradict a white person
or be first to offer your hand to a white person
never speak to or look at a white woman unless you want to be chopped up
& barbecued
park in the colored parking space across the street
if we have to drag your thieving ass to court
swear on the colored bible as the testaments
& gospels don't mean the same for you & us
god will explain this when you die & your black soul
goes to whatever garbage dump nigger souls go to
___________________________
A.B. Spellman
Between the Night and Its Music:
New and Selected Poems
Wesleyan, 2024
Dr. Carla Hayden
Librarian of Congress
In 1995, Hayden received the Librarian of the Year Award from Library Journal, becoming the first African American to receive the award.[71][72]
George Saunders
The New York Times
Hanif Kureishi in 2024, two years after a grievous injury.Credit...
Raphael Neal/Agence VU, via Redux
American Hero
I have nothing to lose tonight.
All my men surround me, panting,
as I spin the ball above our heads
on my middle finger.
Its a shimmering club light
and I'm dancing, slick in my sweat.
Squinting, I aim at the hole
fifty feet away. I let the tension go.
Shoot for the net. Choke it.
I never hear the ball
slap the backboard. I slam it
through the net. The crowd goes wild
for our win. I scored
thirty-two points this game
and they love me for it.
Everyone hollering
is a friend tonight.
But there are towns,
certain neighborhoods
where I'd be hard pressed
to hear them cheer
if I move on the block.
In the Life
Mother, do you know
I roam alone at night?
I wear colognes,
tight pants, and
chains of gold,
as I search
for men willing
to come back
to candlelight.
I'm not scared of these men
though some are killers
of sons like me. I learned
there is no tender mercy
for men of color,
for sons who love men
like me.
Do not feel shame for how I live.
I chose this tribe
of warriors and outlaws.
Do not feel you failed
some test of motherhood.
My life has borne fruit
no woman could have given me
anyway.
If one of these thick-lipped,
wet, black nights
while I'm out walking.
I find freedom in this village.
If I can take it with my tribe
I'll bring you here.
And you will never notice
the absence of rice
and bridesmaids.
_______________________
Essex Hemphill
Love is a Dangerous Word
New Directions, 2025