Sun-blessed, little fades and puffs and hijabs, little hands gripping the fence, little feet jumping, jumping, little mouths a chaos of smile and chant. It happened again. . The New Yorker may earn a portion of sales from products that are purchased through our site as part of our Affiliate Partnerships with retailers. At the center of many of these poems is the black queer body as it moves through a range of contemporary American spaces, some comparatively safe, many potentially lethal. Still the prisons packed like a boat’s stinking hold filled with whom we come from. Seller Inventory # 1555977855, Book Description Condition: New. In the poem above, with its ampersands and strong enjambments, its knowing alliterative excesses, I hear Gerard Manley Hopkins, the Jesuit priest who jury-rigged his verse to express personal turmoil, and Hart Crane, whose gentleness was expressed in an American idiom full of thunderclap, and Allen Ginsberg, who loved and learned from them both. My apartment is a blink’s distance from where the National Guard has set up, on the border between the south and downtown. Not scared, or not showing it, are the Black women on the other side of the police from me. When I go to the protest site to clean up with my broom, I’m sad to see the Foot Locker in Midway is gone, but only for the memories of matching tall tees with the homies, the parties we dressed ourselves for, only to be stopped by cops for wearing the same color. Don't Call Us Dead opens with a heartrending sequence that imagines an afterlife for black men shot by police, a place where suspicion, violence, and grief are forgotten and replaced with the safety, love, and longevity they deserved here on earth. Throughout Don’t Call Us Dead, hope appears as a form of resistance and rebirth.”―The Guardian (UK)“Exceptional. Chiasson explains: "Smith’s work is about that imagination—its role in repairing and sustaining communities, and in making the world more bearable." . These pieces pulse with the rhythms and assertiveness one expects from poetry slams.”―The Washington Post“Searing. A Peaceful Protest, Cut Short by Police, in Houston with George Floyd’s Family, In Minneapolis, Protesters Confront the Police—and One Another, George Floyd’s Death Sets Off a Wave of Protests. Winner of the Forward Prize for Best Collection "[Smith's] poems are enriched to the point of volatility, but they pay out, often, in sudden joy." Every poem impressed me, and the level of craft here is impeccable. . But there is humor, too, and hope, and it’s this hope that elevates the book to its crucial contemporary importance.”―BookPage“These poems decenter through love, erasing margins and reconfiguring the world as a space in which the marginalized body is worthy, the dismissed spirit is honored. But they’re not putting up a wall on any articles that are about either COVID or about uprising, so I was appreciative of that. 1-Click ordering is not available for this item. Good, I think to myself. Guns ready, armored vehicles posed, flanking the whole way down Nicollet Mall—the Brooks Brothers, the boutiques, the Target all protected and served. The addition of Smith’s star turns a random cluster of points into a constellation, the way new work of this calibre always does. Smith can’t help but be breathtaking in style and substance.”―Virginia Quarterly Review, “Aching and elegiac, these poems bless our world in all its ruin, beg it to be otherwise, and begin the bloody work of writing it anew.”―Literary Hub, “Danez Smith is a meteorite of the poetry world, blazing new territory with each new book.”―MPR News, “Don’t Call Us Dead is an historical commentary, a scientific document, a personal narrative, and a formal poetics. 12,40 €, 11,00 € . These cookies are necessary to provide our site and services and therefore cannot be disabled. . The National Guard on my street makes me cry—it’s barely noon and here are their armored vehicles and guns, no other reason than to announce themselves. She gets a few knocks to the head and a fire extinguisher’s cloudy breath to the face. . . . . . I’m pissed at whoever busted the windows out of Best Steakhouse, but I forgive them. Smith turns then to desire, mortality―the dangers experienced in skin and body and blood―and a diagnosis of HIV positive. Capitalism is the worst bird, able to make a tool out of its destruction. Their poems are enriched to the point of volatility, but they pay out, often, in sudden joy. Don’t Call Us Dead gives me a dose of hope at a time when such a thing feels hard to come by.
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