Poems for Feb. 7 + 8

Poems discussed:

Beverly Hills, Chicago, Gwendolyn Brooks

my dreams, my works, must wait till after hell, by Gwendolyn Brooks

What would Gwendolyn Brooks Do? Parneshia Jones

Little Prayer, Danez Smith

The Subject of Retreat - Yona Harvey

“I am turned into a sort of machine for observing facts and grinding out conclusions.”

- Charles Darwin

I think of Darwin writing this over a hundred years ago... and how he might feel now...
What happens in 100 years?  Celebrating Gwendolyn Brooks whose centennial was last year, allows a look at racism, America...  what comes through that is universal, and what
particular to the times?   When contemporary poet Parneshia Jones in her poem,
"What would Gwendolyn Brooks Do?" refers to "another day of fractured humans/who decide how I will live and die,/and I have to act like I like it/so I can keep a job;..."
and how we must hold on to what makes us matter -- to ourselves, to each other.
We are not some number some machine has concluded... nor should we allow ourselves to be so.

Many of us looked up "Beverly Hills, Chicago", surprised to find it existed in GB's hometown... Her description of the great divide between rich and poor, is subtle in
understatements of what it is like to be black, "below the stairs".  What draws us into this poem, is a sense of complicity, as we too look at the rich...  It is easy to become vain or bitter when comparing oneself to another, but GB rides a fine edge that ressembles a
generosity of spirit, with a jibe here and there, ("They make excellent corpses among the expensive flowers).  And yet... a long enough life to have enjoyed "white" hair.

The beautifully-crafted sonnet sets out an octave of nine "I's" that end with "eyes pointed in".
The inwards reflection swells into hope... that what is put on hold will still be good--
will fill the hunger and complete what cannot be completed until "the day arrives".
How hard it is to be told to Wait with a capital W.  Indeed, as Adrienne Rich says
in the passage I shared with both groups, GW's work ranges from exquisite satire to lamentation... and she hold up a mirror to the American experience.

So, I picked Parneshia Jones poem, who wonders what GW would do -- hoping that the waiting is over.  Not yet.   Recognizable troubles that don't seem an improvement over those in GW's lifetime.  Repeated in the poem, "hold on"... and hold on to everyone in your community.. hold on and keep holding.

We ended with two poems by two young Black poets.
I find "Little Prayer" could almost be read backwards:

let it be
&if not
let this be the healing
&find a field of lilacs

let him enter the lion's cage
where there was once a slaughter

let him find honey
let ruin end here
little prayer
**
The pronoun "him" is ambiguous -- not Him, as in a God, but perhaps a generic "him"
which hums presence of everyone...  Let is be as a slant "amen"

The final poem, has a curious title:  The Subject of Retreat.
Not, "On the subject of retreat" or "retreat" or "Subject:  Retreat".
Is it withdraws, or spiritual drawing away to a quiet space to meditate,
renew?
The repetitions of "The snow..." line break...
but what is "snow" we don't mention, or "on the other side" -- being white?
numb? drugs?  Black coat -- a skin? an itentity one can wear...
two realities... what the "I" knows and the refusal (retreat) of the other...
I like the ambiguities but have a hard time reconciling the various parts.