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Lädt ... Monument: Poems New and Selected (2018)123 | 4 | 221,952 |
(4.19) | 47 | "Layering joy and urgent defiance--against physical and cultural erasure, against white supremacy whether intangible or graven in stone--Natasha Trethewey's work gives pedestal and witness to unsung icons. Monument, her first retrospective volume, draws together verses that delineate 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, Gulf Coast victims of Hurricane Katrina. Through the collection, inlaid and inextricable, winds the poet's own family history of upheaval and loss, resilience and love ... 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 vocabulary we use to speak about race, gender, and our collective future"--… (mehr) |
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Wichtige Schauplätze |
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Wichtige Ereignisse |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. Where no monuments exist to heroes but in the common words and deeds... —from "The Great City," Walt Whitman Memory is a cemetery I've visited once or twice, white ubiquitous and the set-aside
Everywhere under foot... —Charles Wright What is love? One name for it is knowledge. —Robert Penn Warren
After such knowledge, what forgiveness? —T.S. Eliot Often I am permitted to return to a meadow as if it were a given property of the mind... —Robert Duncan | |
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Widmung |
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. For my parents— Gwen and Rick and for Brett | |
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Erste Worte |
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. Imperatives for Carrying On in the Aftermath
Do not hang your head or clench your fists when even your friend, after hearing the story, says, My mother would never put up with that. | |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. Cleanliness is next to godliness...
Windows and doors flung wide, curtains two-stepping forward and backward, neck bones bumping in the pot, a choir of clothes clapping on the line
Nearer my God to Thee...
She beats time on the rugs, blows dust from the broom like dandelion spores, each one a wish for something better.
–excerpt from Domestic Work, 1937 Gesture of a Woman in Process
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY CLIFTON JOHNSON, 1902
In the foreground, two women, their squinting faces creased into texture—
a deep relief—the lines like palms of hands I could read if I could touch.
Around them, their dailiness: clotheslines sagged with linens, a patch of greens and yams,
buckets of peas for shelling. One woman pauses for the picture. The other won't be still.
Even now, her hands circling, the white blur of her apron still in motion. Yes: I was born a slave, at harvest time, in the Parish of Ascension; I've reached thirty-three with history of one younger inscribed upon my back. I now use ink to keep record, a closed book, not the lure of memory—flawed, changeful—that dulls the lash for the master, sharpens it for the slave.
—excerpt from Native Guard (November 1862) Native Guard
December 1862
For the slave, having a master sharpens the bend into work, the way the sergeant moves us now to perfect battalion drill, dress parade. Still, we're called supply units— not infantry—and so we dig trenches, haul burdens for the army no less heavy than before. I heard the colonel call it nigger work. Half rations make our work familiar still. We take those things we need from the Confederates' abandoned homes: salt, sugar, even this journal, near full with someone else's words, overlapped now, crosshatched beneath mine. On every page, his story intersecting with my own. 7. Benediction
I thought that when I saw my brother walking through the gates of the prison, he would look like a man entering
his life. And he did. He carried a small bag, holding it away from his body as if he would not touch it, or
that it weighed almost nothing. The clothes he wore seemed to belong to someone else, like hand-me-downs
given a child who will one day grow into them. Behind him, at the fence, the inmates were waving, someone saying
All right now. And then my brother was walking toward us, a few awkward steps, at first, until
he got it—how to hold up the too-big pants with one hand, and in the other carry everything else he had. The servant, still a child, cranes his neck, turns his face up toward all of them. He is dark as history, origin of the word native: the weight of blood, a pale mistress on his back,
heavier every year.
—excerpt from Taxonomy Why is everything I see the past I've tried to forget? In dreams
I am a child again, underwater, my limbs sluggish as I struggle to wake. Always
I am pursued. Waking, I am freighted with memory: my mother's last words
spoken—after her death—in a dream: Do you know what it means
to have a wound that never heals? And now this thirst:
how many times have I cupped my hands to drink, found—in the map
of my palms—this same pattern: lines crossed and capillary as veins
in the body, these willowy reeds? How can I see anything
but this: how trauma lives in the sea of my body, awash in the waters
of forgetting. In every resilient blade I see the ancestors, my mother's face.
—excerpt from Waterborne Letter to Inmate #271847, Convicted of Murder, 1985
When I heard you might get out, I was driving through the Delta, rain pounding my windshield, the sun angled and bright beneath dark clouds—familiar weather, what I'd learned long ago to call the devil beating his wife. I was listening to two things at once: an old song on the radio and, on the phone, a woman from Victim Services—her voice solicitous, slow, as though she were speaking to a child. I was back in the state I still call home, headed south on Highway 49, trying to resur- rect my mother in the landscape of childhood as the Temptations were singing her song—the one she played over and over our last year in Mississippi, 1971, that summer before we moved to the city that would lead us, soon, to you. It was Just My Imagination and I could see her again: her back to me, swaying over the ironing board, the iron's steel plate catching the sun and holding it there. For a moment I was who I had been before, the joyful daughter of my young mother—until the woman on the phone said your name, telling me I must write the parole board a letter. I was again stepdaughter, daughter of sorrow, daughter of the murdered woman. This is how the past interrupts our lives, all of it entering the same doorway—like the hole in the trunk of my neighbor's tree: at once a natural shelter, haven for small creatures, but also evidence of injury, an entrance for decay. When I saw it, I thought of how, as a child, I'd have chosen it for play—a place to crawl inside and hide. And when I thought of hiding, I could not help but think of you. What does it mean to be safe in the world? Everywhere I go she is with me—my long-dead mother. Is there nowhere I might go and not find you, there too? | |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. | |
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▾Literaturhinweise Literaturhinweise zu diesem Werk aus externen Quellen. Wikipedia auf EnglischKeine ▾Buchbeschreibungen "Layering joy and urgent defiance--against physical and cultural erasure, against white supremacy whether intangible or graven in stone--Natasha Trethewey's work gives pedestal and witness to unsung icons. Monument, her first retrospective volume, draws together verses that delineate 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, Gulf Coast victims of Hurricane Katrina. Through the collection, inlaid and inextricable, winds the poet's own family history of upheaval and loss, resilience and love ... 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 vocabulary we use to speak about race, gender, and our collective future"-- ▾Bibliotheksbeschreibungen Keine Bibliotheksbeschreibungen gefunden. ▾Beschreibung von LibraryThing-Mitgliedern
Zusammenfassung in Haiku-Form |
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Aktuelle DiskussionenKeineGoogle Books — Lädt ...
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5 stars
Natasha Trethewey has a memoir that will be released at the end of this month. That book’s description caught my attention on several recent lists of books by black authors. I knew her name. How did I know her name? She is a poet. I read a lot of poetry, but I couldn’t quite place her in my memory. I looked for her work at Poetry Foundation (poetryfoundation.org/poets/natasha-tretheway). After reading a few poems from the website, I was hooked.
Trethewey is a former US poet laureate. She won a Pulitzer prize in 2007 for her third book of poems, Native Guard. Like Trevor Noah, she was also ‘born a crime’ in 1966 a year before the ruling in Loving v. Virginia.
As the title indicates, Monument: Poems New and Selected is a collection. They are meditations, examinations of race, both personally and historically. They are autobiographical; grief stricken examinations of her mother’s murder by an abusive stepfather, personal explorations of a mixed race childhood. Trethewey is an accomplished poet, but I didn’t read these poems thinking about how well she handled line and meter, image and paradox. The content of these poems is accessible. They are worthy of rereading and further thought, but they also have an immediate impact.
I look forward to reading Memorial Drive: A Daughter’s Memoir when it is published a week from now. I’ve also ordered copies of Bellocq’s Ophelia and Native Guard because neither of those books, by this award winning poet, are available from either of the public library systems that I can access. ( )