Monument
Poems New and Selected
Natasha Trethewey
- 208 pages
- English
- ePUB (mobile friendly)
- Available on iOS & Android
Monument
Poems New and Selected
Natasha Trethewey
About This Book
Urgent new poems on race and gender inequality, and select poems drawing upon Domestic Work, Bellocq's Ophelia, Native Guard, Congregation, and Thrall, from two-time U.S. Poet Laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner Natasha Trethewey. Layering joy and urgent defianceāagainst physical and cultural erasure, against white supremacy whether intangible or graven in stoneāTrethewey's work gives pedestal and witness to unsung icons. Monument, Trethewey's first retrospective, draws together verse that delineates the stories of working class African American women, a mixed-race prostitute, one of the first black Civil War regiments, mestizo and mulatto figures in Casta paintings, and Gulf coast victims of Katrina. Through the collection, inlaid and inextricable, winds the poet's own family history of trauma and loss, resilience and love. In this setting, each poem drawn from an "opus of classics both elegant and necessary, "* weaves and interlocks with those that come before and those that follow. As a whole, Monument casts new light on the trauma of our national wounds, our shared history. This is a poet's remarkable labor to source evidence, persistence, and strength from the past in order to change the very foundation of the vocabulary we use to speak about race, gender, and our collective future. *Academy of American Poets' chancellor Marilyn Nelson "[Trethewey's poems] dig beneath the surface of historyāpersonal or communal, from childhood or from a century agoāto explore the human struggles that we all face." āJames H. Billington, 13th Librarian of Congress
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Domestic Work
FOR LERETTA DIXON TURNBOUGH (LEE)
JUNE 22, 1916āJULY 28, 2008
I shirk not. I long for work. I pant for a life full of striving.āW.E.B. Du Bois
1. Domestic Work, 1937
All week sheās cleanedsomeone elseās house,stared down her own facein the shine of copper-bottomed pots, polishedwood, toilets sheād pullthe lid toāthat look sayingĀLetās make a change, girl.ĀBut Sunday mornings are hersāchurch clothes starchedand hanging, a record spinningon the console, the whole housedancing. She raises the shades,washes the rooms in light,buckets of water, Octagon soap.ĀCleanliness is next to godlinessĀ .Ā .Ā .ĀWindows and doors flung wide,curtains two-steppingforward and back, neck bonesbumping in the pot, a choirof clothes clapping on the line.ĀNearer my God to TheeĀ .Ā .Ā .ĀShe beats time on the rugs,blows dust from the broomlike dandelion spores, each onea wish for something better.
2. Speculation, 1939
First, the moles on each handāThatās money by the panāĀand always the New Yearās cabbageand black-eyed peas. Now this,another remembered adage,her palms itching with promise,Āshe swears by the signsāMoney coming soon.But from where? Her left-eye twitchsays sheāll see the boon.Goodāsheās tired of the elevator switch,Āthose closed-in spaces, white menāssideways stares. Nothing buttime to think, make planseach time the doors slide shut.ĀWhatās to be gained from this New Deal?Something finer like beauty schoolor a millinerās shopāshe loves the feelof marcelled hair, felt and tulle,Ānot this all-day standing around,not that elevator lurching up, then down.
3. Secular
Workweekās endand thereās enoughblock-ice in the boxto chill a washtub of colasand one large melon,dripping green.After service, each house opensheavy doors to street and woods,one clear shot from front to backābullet, breeze, or holler.A neighborās Yoo-hoo reaches herout back, lolling, pulling in wash,pillow slips billowingaround her head like clouds.Up the block,a brand-new Grafonola,parlor music, blues parlandoāBig Mama, Ma Rainey, Bessieābaby shake that thing like a saltshaker.Lipstick, nylonsand sheās out the door,tipping past the church house,Dixie Peach in her hair,greased forehead shininglike gospel, like gold.
4. Signs, Oakvale, Mississippi, 1941
The first time she leaves home is with a man.On Highway 49, heading north, she watchesthe pine woods roll by, and counts on one handdead possum along the road, crows in splotchesof lightāshe knows to watch the signs for luck.He has a fine car, she thinks. And money greenenough to buy a dreamāmore than she could tuckunder the mattress, in a Bible, or fold betweenher powdered breasts. Heād promised land to farmback home, new dresses, a house where sheād bequeen. (Was that gap in his teeth cause for alarm?)The cards said go. She could roam the Delta, seethings sheād never seen. Outside her window,nothing but cotton and road signsāstop or slow.
5. Expectant
Nights are hardest, the swelling,tight and low (a girl), Delta heat,and that woodsy silence a zephyred hush.So how to keep busy? Wind the clocks,measure out time to check the window,or listen hard for his car on the road.Small tasks done and undone, a floorswept clean. She can fill a roomwith a loud clear alto, broom-danceright out the back door, her heavy footstepsa parade beneath the stars. Honeysucklefragrant as perfume, nightlifea steady insect hum. Still, sh...