New and Collected Poems 1964-2007 - Softcover

Reed, Ishmael

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1568583419 ISBN 13: 9781568583419

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing, 2007

Synopsis

Named a New York Times Book Review Notable Book of 2006

One of the founding fathers of multi-cultural studies, award-winning writer Ishmael Reed first came to the attention of the literary world as a poet, and despite success as a novelist, playwright, essayist, and recording artist, has never ceased to be a poet. He delves into spiritual and political waters with his own unexpected and uniquely powerful voice. New and Collected Poems, 1966-2006 captures four decades of Reed's inimitable verse, a visionary journey from Chattanooga to New York, from Africa to Oakland. In language that is pointed, innovative, and profound, Reed weaves politics and war with Yoruba and Jazz, and takes on American culture, from prejudice to Pepsi to George W. Bush. In this important and long-awaited volume -- the first poetry collection from the MacArthur fellow in nearly twenty years -- one of America's most esteemed and intrepid poets, whose "Beware Do Not Read This Poem" has been cited by Gale Research as one of about 20 poems most frequently studied in literature courses, shows why Reed has helped define our cultural forefront from the '60s to today.

About this title

About the Author

Ishmael Reed is a novelist, poet, playwright, and essayist who has published nine critically acclaimed novels and more than a dozen other books of poetry and essays. In additional to being nominated for a National Book Award for Poetry, recent awards have included the Lila Wallace-Reader's Digest Award, a John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation Fellowship, and 2008 Blues Songwriter of the Year from the West Coast Blues Hall of Fame. He is Professor Emeritus at University of California at Berkeley.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

New and Collected Poems 1964-2006

By Ishmael Reed

Thunder's Mouth Press

Copyright © 2007 Ishmael Reed
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9781568583419

Chapter One The Ghost in BirminghamThe only Holy Ghost in Birmingham is Denmark Vesey'sHoly Ghost, brooding, moving in and out of things. No onenotices the figure in antique cloak of the last century,haunting the pool games, talking of the weather with apasserby, attending mass meetings, standing guard, comingup behind each wave of protest, reloading a pistol. No onenotices the antique figure in shabby clothing, moving inand out of things-rallies of moonshine gatherings-whousurps a pulpit and preaches a fire sermon, plucking theplumage of a furious hawk, a sparrow having passivelydied, moving in and out of chicken markets, watchingsparrow habits become hawk habits, through bar stoolsand greenless parks, beauty salons, floating games, goingsomewhere, haranguing the crowds, his sleeves rolled uplike a steelworker's, hurling epithets at the pharoah's club-wieldingbrigade, under orders to hunt down the firstbornof each low lit hearth.There are no bulls in America in the sense of great symbols,which preside over resuscitation of godheads, that shakethe dead land green. Only the "bull" of Birmingham, papiermache, ten dollars down monthly terms, carbon copymock heroic American variety of bullhood, who told acrowded room of flashbulbs that there was an outsidermoving in and out of things that night, a spectre whoflashed through the night like Pentecost. He's right, there was. Not the spook of the Judaic mystery, the universalimmersed in the particular. Not the outsider from unpopularmysteries, a monstrous dialectic waddling through thecorridors of his brain, but the nebulous presence hidden byflashbulbing events in Birmingham, Metempsychosisstroking the air.Pragma the bitch has a knight errant called Abbadon, in theold texts the advocate of dreadful policies. The whore, herabominations spilling over, her stinking afterbirths slimingtheir way towards a bay of pigs, has a bland and well-groomedknight errant who said that "if we hand down afew more decisions, pile up paper, snap a few more picturesby Bachrach of famous people before grand rhetoricalcolumns of the doric order, perhaps they will stop comingout into the streets in Raleigh, Greensboro, Jackson andAtlanta sometimes called the Athens of the south).Pragma's well-groomed and bland procurer is on long distance manufacturing heroes,Heroes who bray in sirens screaming in from Idlewild, winging in from points south,Their utterances cast into bronze by press-card-carrying harpies, those creatures of distorted reality.O ebony-limbed Osiris, what clown folk singer or acrobat shall I place the tin wreath upon?When will Osiris be scattered over 100 ghettos?Heroes are ferried in by motorcycle escorts, their faces cast into by Pointillism, by Artzybasheff,Sculptor of Henry Luce's America.Introducing the King of Birmingham, sometimes called the anointed one,Who receives the tin wreath across Americana banquet rooms,His hands dripping with blood like a fanatical monk as rebellion squirms on the stake.Introducing the Black Caligula, who performs a strip tease of the psyche,Between Tiffany ads and Vat 69, giving up a little pussy for a well-groomed and bland knight errant.O ebony-limbed Osiris, what knight club tap dancing charlatan shall I place the tin wreath upon?All things are flowing said the poet when gods ambushed gods: Khan follows Confucius Light follows darknessTin wreathed heroes are followed by the figure in antique clothes, obscured by the flashbulbing events in Birmingham.Metempsychosis in the air. The Jackal-Headed Cowboy We were-clinging to our arboreal-rustled by a poplin dude so fast that even now we mistake big mack trucks flying confederate crossbones for rampaging steer, leaping into their sandpaper hides and lassoing their stubble faced drivers as they roar into corn flaked greasy spoons. We span the spic and spanned cesspools nerves rankling like hot headed guerrillas bayoneting artery routes and crawling through our bowels with blades in their teeth. Our mohair suits, our watches, our horn rimmed glasses and several telephones petition us to slow down as we forget whose soupcan we swim. We stand at Brooklyn Bridge like mayakovsky before, deafened by the nuts and bolts and clogged in the comings and goings of goings of Usura We are homesick weary travelers in the Jungian sense and miss the brew of the long night's pipe. Our dreams point like bushy mavericks to hawking game and scattering ripple falls. We will swing from giant cables as if they were hemp, hacking away at sky scrapers till they tumble into christmas crowds. We will raid chock full O nuts untying apron strings crouching stealthily in the streets breaking up conference rooms sweeping away forms memo pads, ransoming bank presidents shoving dollar bills through their mahogany jaws. We will sit on Empire Sofas listening to Gabrieli's fortissimo trumpets blare for stewed and staggering Popes as Tom Tom mallets beat the base of our brains. We will leap tall couplets in a single bound and chant chant Chant until our pudgy swollen lips go on strike. Our daughters will shake rattle roll and slop snapping their fingers until grandfather clocks' knees buckle and Tudor mansions free their cobwebs. Our mothers will sing shout swing and foam making gothic spires get happy clapping the night like blown up Zeppelin. We will sizzle burn crackle and fry like combs snapping the naps of Henri Christophe's daughters. and We will scramble breasts bleating like some tribe run amuck up and down desecrating cosmotological graveyard factories. and We will mash stock exchange bugs till their sticky brown insides spill out like reams of ticker tape. and We will drag off yelling pinching bawling shouting pep pills, detergents, acne powders, clean rooms untampered maiden heads finger bowls napkins renaissance glassware time subscriptions reducing formulas -please call before visiting- -very happy to make your acquaintanceship i'm sure- and boil down one big vat of unanimal stew topped with kegs and kegs of whipped dynamite and cheery smithereens. and then We will rush like crazed antelopes with our bastard babies number books mojo goofer dusting razor blades chicken thighs spooky ha'nts daddygracing fatherdivining jack legged preaching bojangles sugar raying mamas into one scorching burning lake and have a jigging hoedown with the Quadrilling Sun. and the panting moneygrabbing landlord leeching redneck judges will scuffle the embankment and drag the lipstick sky outside. and their fuzzy patriarchs from Katzenjammer orphic will offer hogmaws and the thunder bird and their overseers will offer elixir bottles of pre punch cards and the protocol hollering thunder will announce our main man who'll bathe us and swathe us. and Our man's spur jingles'll cause the clouds to kick the dust in flight. And his gutbucketing rompity bump will cause sweaty limp flags to furl retreat and the Jackal-headed cowboy will ride reins whiplashing his brass legs and knobby hips. And fast draw Anubis with his crank letters from Ra will Gallop Gallop Gallop our mummified profiled trail boss as our swashbuckling storm fucking mob rides shot gun for the moon and the whole sieged stage coach of the world will heave and rock as we bang stomp shuffle stampede cartwheel and cakewalk our way into Limbo. The Gangster's Death how did he die/ O if i told you, you would slap your hand against your forehead and say good grief/if I gripped you by the lapel and told how they dumped thalidomide hand grenades into his blood stream and/ how they injected a cyst into his spirit the size of an egg which grew and grew until floating gangrene encircled the globe and/how guerrillas dropped from trees like mean pythons and squeezed out his life so that jungle birds fled their perches/ so that hand clapping monkeys tumbled from branches and/ how twelve year olds snatched B-52's from the skies with their bare hands and/ how betty grable couldn't open a hershey bar without the wrapper exploding and/ how thin bent women wrapped bicycle chains around their knuckles saying we will fight until the last bra or/ give us bread or shoot us/and/ how killing him became child's play in Danang in Mekong in Santo Domingo and how rigor mortis was sprinkled in boston soups giving rum running families stiff back aches so that they were no longer able to sit at the elbows of the president with turkey muskets or/sit on their behinds watching the boat races off Massachusetts through field glasses but/ how they found their duck pants pulled off in the get-back-in-the-alleys of the world and/ how they were routed by the people spitting into their palms just waiting to use those lobster pinchers or smash that martini glass and/ how they warned him and gave him a chance with no behind the back dillinger killing by flat headed dicks but/ how they held megaphones in their fists saying come out with your hands up and/ how refusing to believe the jig was up he accused them of apocalyptic barking saying out of the corner of his mouth come in and get me and/ how they snagged at his khaki legs until their mouths were full of ankles and calves and/ how they sank their teeth into his swanky jugular getting the sweet taste of max factor on their tongues and/ how his screams were so loud that the skins of eardrums blew off and blood trickled down the edges of mouths and people got hip to his aliases/ i mean/ democracy and freedom began bouncing all over the world like bad checks as people began scratching their heads and stroking their chins as his rhetoric stuck in his fat throat while he quoted men with frills on their wrists and fake moles on their cheeks and swans on their snuff boxes who sit in Gilbert Stuart's portraits talking like baroque clocks/ who sit talking turkey talk to people who say we don't want to hear it as they lean over their plows reading Mao wringing the necks of turkeys and making turkey talk gobble in upon itself in Mekong and Danang and Santo Domingo and Che Guevara made personal appearances everywhere Che Guevara in Macy's putting incendiary flowers on marked down hats and women scratching out each other's eyes over ambulances Che Guevara in Congress putting TNT shavings in the ink wells and politicians tripped over their jowls trying to get away Che Guevara in small towns and hamlets where cans jump from the hands of stock clerks in flaming super markets/ where skyrocketing devil's food cakes contain the teeth of republican bankers/ where the steer of gentleman farmers shoot over the moon like beef}" missiles while undeveloped people stand in road shoulders saying fly Che fly bop a few for us put cement on his feet and take him for a ride O Walt Whitman visionary of leaking faucets great grand daddy of drips you said I hear america singing but/how can you sing when your throat is slit and O/how can you see when your head bobs in a sewer in Danang and Mekong and Santo Domingo and look at them weep for a stiff/ i mean a limp dead hood Bishops humping their backsides/ folding their hands in front of their noses forming a human carpet for a zombie men and women looking like sick dust mops/ running their busted thumbs across whiskey headed guitars/ weeping into the evil smelling carnations of Baby Face McNamara and Killer Rusk whose arms are loaded with hijacked rest in peace wreaths and/ look at them hump this stiff in harlem/ sticking out their lower lips/ and because he two timed them/ midget manicheans shaking their fists in bullet proof telephone booths/ dialing legba on long distance receiving extra terrestrial sorry wrong number seeing big nosed black people land in space ships/ seeing swamp gas/ shoving inauthentic fireballs down their throats/ bursting their lungs on existentialist rope skipping/ look at them mourn/ drop dead egalitarians and CIA polyglots crying into their bill folds we must love one another or die while little boys wipe out whole regiments with bamboo sticks while wrinkled face mandarins store 17 megatons in Haiku for people have been holding his death birds on their wrists and his death birds make their arms sag with their filthy nests and his death birds at their baby's testicles and they got sick and fed up with those goddamn birds and they brought their wrists together and blew/ i mean/ puffed their jaws and blew and shooed these death birds his way and he is mourned by drop dead egalitarians and CIA polyglots and midget manicheans and Brooks Brothers Black People throwing valentines at crackers for a few spoons by Kirk's old Maryland engraved/ for a look at Lassie's purple tongue/ for a lock of roy rogers' hair/ for a Lawrence Welk champagne bubble as for me/like the man said i'm always glad when the chickens come home to roost The Feral Pioneers for Dancer I rise at 2 a.m. these mornings, to polish my horns: to see if the killing has stopped. It is still snowing outside: it comes down in screaming white clots. We sleep on the floor. I popped over the dog last night & we ate it with roots & berries. The night before, lights of a wounded coyote I found in the pass. (The horse froze weeks ago) Our covered wagons be trapped in strange caverns of the world. Our journey, an entry in the thirty- year old Missourian's '49 Diary.

Continues...

Excerpted from New and Collected Poems 1964-2006by Ishmael Reed Copyright © 2007 by Ishmael Reed. Excerpted by permission.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
• Publication date: 2007
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1568583419
• ISBN 13: 9781568583419
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 511