Monument
Poems New and Selected
Natasha Trethewey
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Monument
Poems New and Selected
Natasha Trethewey
Ăber dieses Buch
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 defianceâagainst physical and cultural erasure, against white supremacy whether intangible or graven in stoneâTrethewey'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 historyâpersonal or communal, from childhood or from a century agoâto explore the human struggles that we all face." âJames H. Billington, 13th Librarian of Congress
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Domestic Work
FOR LERETTA DIXON TURNBOUGH (LEE)
JUNE 22, 1916âJULY 28, 2008
I shirk not. I long for work. I pant for a life full of striving.âW.E.B. Du Bois
1. Domestic Work, 1937
All week sheâs cleanedsomeone elseâs house,stared down her own facein the shine of copper-bottomed pots, polishedwood, toilets sheâd pullthe lid toâthat look sayingÂLetâs make a change, girl.ÂBut Sunday mornings are hersâchurch 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.ÂCleanliness is next to godliness . . .ÂWindows and doors flung wide,curtains two-steppingforward and back, neck bonesbumping in the pot, a choirof clothes clapping on the line.ÂNearer my God to Thee . . .ÂShe 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 handâThatâs money by the panâÂand always the New Yearâs cabbageand black-eyed peas. Now this,another remembered adage,her palms itching with promise,Âshe swears by the signsâMoney coming soon.But from where? Her left-eye twitchsays sheâll see the boon.Goodâsheâs tired of the elevator switch,Âthose closed-in spaces, white menâssideways stares. Nothing buttime to think, make planseach time the doors slide shut.ÂWhatâs to be gained from this New Deal?Something finer like beauty schoolor a millinerâs shopâshe loves the feelof marcelled hair, felt and tulle,Ânot this all-day standing around,not that elevator lurching up, then down.
3. Secular
Workweekâs endand thereâs 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 backâbullet, breeze, or holler.A neighborâs 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 parlandoâBig Mama, Ma Rainey, Bessieâbaby shake that thing like a saltshaker.Lipstick, nylonsand sheâs 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 lightâshe knows to watch the signs for luck.He has a fine car, she thinks. And money greenenough to buy a dreamâmore than she could tuckunder the mattress, in a Bible, or fold betweenher powdered breasts. Heâd promised land to farmback home, new dresses, a house where sheâd bequeen. (Was that gap in his teeth cause for alarm?)The cards said go. She could roam the Delta, seethings sheâd never seen. Outside her window,nothing but cotton and road signsâstop 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...