Brutal imagination Poems

Review by Booklist Review

In his seventh collection, Eady, an African American poet honored with many prestigious awards, combines poetry and drama in works of searing clarity. In the first section, he deftly parses the toxic products of the white racist imagination, specifically the image of the black man as threat. Sentient and precise, Eady writes from the point of view of the black kidnapper Susan Smith invented as an alibi for her murder of her two young sons, expressing in a minimum of gorgeously measured words all the painful ironies inherent in her lie and the ease with which it was accepted, and gradually reaching a state of grace in which anger is supplanted by compassion. The lilting second section contains poems from the libretto for a roots opera titled Running Man. Although the hero has just died, he speaks bluntly and unforgettably for himself, taking turns with his parents and sisters as their voices combine to create a multifaceted elegy for a man cheated out of the ennobling life of the mind, and driven to a hard-hearted existence of misplaced revenge. Donna Seaman

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Library Journal Review

Eady's new book consists of two song cycles. The title sequence involves the imaginary black man that Susan Smith created to cover up killing her two small sons. That ugly, sad lie has given birth to a narrator with wit, personality, and unexpected wisdom. Of course, he is a figment of a white woman's imagination, a black man of white invention, and yet his is a penetrating look at race in America: "I am not the hero of this piece./ I am only a stray thought, a solution." Elsewhere in the sequence, Eady evokes the ghosts of other white creations: Uncle Tom, Uncle Ben, Jemima, and Steppin Fetchit ("the low pitched anger/ Someone mistook for stupid"). Finally, the "Confession": "There have been days I've almost/ Spilled/ From her, nearly taken a breath./ Yanked/ Myself clean." In the second sequence, the "Running Man Poems," a black family faces death and the obstacles of color, class, and caste that test them. This sequence was the basis of Eady's libretto for the musical drama of the same name, a 1999 Pulitzer finalist. With its good, thoughtful work, this volume steps forward to face challenges of its own, and it should be appreciated.DLouis McKee, Painted Bride Arts Ctr., Philadelphia (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

The connection in Eady’s art between music and drama, drawing on their close associations in African-American traditions, has never been more important than in this work, which comprises two distinct but related “song cycles.” Although each poem stands adequately on its own, when assembled they form an even more powerful and coherent poetic narrative, the protagonist of which is the “dusky angel” invented by Susan Smith in 1995 to explain the abduction and disappearance of her two young sons. (She later confessed to leaving them in the back seat of the car she drove into a lake.) The effect is chilling. With both wit and well-directed anger, the poet invokes other mythical characters of the white imagination: Uncle Ben, Aunt Jemima, Buckwheat, Steppin Fetchit, the “ghost of the scripts.” The second cycle of poems derives from Eady’s libretto for “Running Man,” presented at Here Theatre in New York in early 1999. It portrays, through family recollections, the life of a black man who ventures from the small Southern town of his birth to a Northern city. The language here is both more rhythmic and idiomatic, as when “a sinner smacked to the floor by the holy spirit” is compared to a flopping fish “scooped from a pond” (a cogent metaphor for the rural black exodus of the 1940s and 1950s). Although this may hardly seem a fit subject for poetic exploration, Eady’s touch is masterly.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Chapter One The speaker is the young black man                     Susan Smith claimed             kidnapped her children.     HOW I GOT BORN Though it's common belief That Susan Smith willed me alive At the moment Her babies sank into the lake When called, I come. My job is to get things done. I am piecemeal. I make my living by taking things. So now a mother needs me clothed In hand-me-downs And a knit cap. Whatever. We arrive, bereaved On a stranger's step. Baby , they weep, Poor child .     MY HEART Susan Smith has invented me because Nobody else in town will do what She needs me to do. I mean: jump in an idling car And drive off with two sad and Frightened kids in the back. Like a bad lover, she has given me a poisoned heart. It pounds both our ribs, black, angry, nothing but business. Since her fear is my blood And her need part mythical, Everything she says about me is true.     WHO AM I? Who are you, mister? One of the boys asks From the eternal backseat And here is the one good thing: If I am alive, then so, briefly, are they, Two boys returned, three and one, Quiet and scared, bunched together Breathing like small beasts. They can't place me, yet there's Something familiar. Though my skin and sex are different, maybe It's the way I drive Or occasionally glance back With concern, Maybe it's the mixed blessing Someone, perhaps circumstance, Has given us, The secret thrill of hiding, Childish, in plain sight, Seen, but not seen, As if suddenly given the power To move through walls, To know every secret without permission. We roll sleepless through the dark streets, but inside The cab is lit with brutal imagination.     SIGHTINGS A few nights ago A man swears he saw me pump gas With the children At a convenience store Like a punchline you get the next day, Or a kiss in a dream that returns while You're in the middle of doing Something else. I left money in his hand. Mr. ________ who lives in ________ South Carolina, Of average height And a certain weight Who may or may not Believe in any of the Basic recognized religions, Saw me move like an angel In my dusky skin And knit hat. Perhaps I looked him in the eye. Copyright © 2001 Cornelius Eady. All rights reserved.

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