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Praise for Saeed Jones: "Jones is the kind of writer who's more than wanted: he's desperately needed."â??FlavorWire "I get shout-happy when I read these poems; they are the gospel; they are the good news of the sustaining power of imagination, tenderness, and outright joy."â??D. A. Powell â??Prelude to Bruise works its tempestuous mojo just under the skin, wreaking a sweet havoc and rearranging the pulse. These poems don't dole out mercy. Mr. Jones undoubtedly dipped his pen in fierce before crafting these stanzas that rock like backslap. Straighten your skirt, children. The doors of the church are open."â??Patricia Smith â??It's a big book, a major book. A game-changer. Dazzling, brutal, real. Not just brilliant, caustic, and impassioned but a work that brings historyâ??in which the personal and political are inter-constitutiveâ??to the immediate moment. Jones takes a reader deep into lived experience, into a charged world divided among unstable yet entrenched lines: racial, gendered, political, sexual, familial. Here we absorb each quiet resistance, each whoop of joy, a knowledge of violence and of desire, an unbearable ache/loss/yearning. This is not just a â??new voice" but a new song, a new way of singing, a new music made of deep grief's wildfire, of burning intelligence and of all-feeling heart, scorched and seared. In a poem, Jones says, â??Boy's body is a song only he can hear." But now that we have this book, we can all hear it. And it's unforgettable."â??Brenda Shaughnessy â??Inside each hunger, each desire, speaks the voice of a boy that admits 'I've always wanted to be dangerous.' This is not a threat but a promise to break away from the affliction of silence, to make audible the stories that trouble the dimensions of masculinity and discomfort the polite conversations about race. With impressive grace, Saeed Jones situates the queer black body at the center, where his visibility and vulnerability nurture emotional strength and the irrepressible energy to claim those spaces that were once denied or withheld from him. Prelude to a Bruise is a daring debut."â??Rigoberto González From "Sleeping Arrangement": Take your hand out from under my pillow. And take your sheets with you. Drag them under. Make pretend ghosts. I can't have you rattling the bed springs so keep still, keep quiet. Mistake yourself for shadows. Learn the lullabies of lint. Saeed Jonesworks a… (lisätietoja)
A collection suffused with physicality, which begins with a prologue poem of incarnation, one of my favorites in the volume: Heard you crack open the field's skull/where you landed.//Halo of smoke ruined the sky/and you were a body now//naked and bruised in the cratered cotton./Could have been a meteorite//except for those strip-mined eyes, each/a point of fossilized night.//Bringing water and a blanket,/I asked, "Which of your lives is this,//third or fifth?" Your answer, blues/a breeze to soak my clothes//in tears.
After the prologue the poems are divided up into four sections, after which follows a couple of codas. In the first section, home, childhood, breaking free. Red is at the end of black. Pitch-black unthreads/and swings garnet//in what I thought was home. I'm climbing/out of my father.
In the second, racial and sexual awakening, and self-loathing. In "Jasper, 1998", on the dragging death of James Byrd, Jr.: I speak/in the language of sharp turns. ... Hear me, Jasper./Hear me for miles. About a lover, in "He Thinks He Can Leave Me": and his darkness/mistakes me//for sunrise.
In the third, unsuccessful relationships, and struggling with loneliness. Straight, no chaser, a joke in our bed/but I stopped laughing; all those empty bottles,//kitchen counters covered with beer cans/and broken glasses. To realize you drank//so you could face me the morning after,/the only way to choke down rage at the body//sleeping beside you. What did I know/of your father's backhand or the pine casket//he threatened to put you in? Then, In my empty bed, I dreamed//the record's needle pointed into my back,/spinning me into no one's song.
In the fourth: death. In "Mississippi Drowning", Let me show you how//to make your lungs/a home for minnows, how//to let them flicker//like silver//in and out of your mouth/like last words..., and in "Hour Between Dog & Wolf", In an hour colored tourmaline, I mistake your guitar/for a body in sleep and smash you into effigy,//splinter your way back into my skin.
The coda gives us "History, According to Boy" which reads as an autobiographical prose-poem of growing up black and gay, and finally "Last Portrait as Boy", which hopefully signals growth beyond the hard struggle witnessed thus far, summarized in one of the earlier poems as Half this life I've spent falling out of fourth-story windows.
Excellent. The collection is put together well, and there are several stand-out pieces. The few I'd read in publications before this were just as good again, and important to the overall narrative. For some reason the poem about kudzu is the one haunting my memory right now. ( )
To say that Saeed Jones is intense, is an understatement. Just when I think that I cannot have a more emotional response to a poem, the next poem hits me in the guts again. I am not one to typically read a book of poetry, but I am glad this one fell into my lap when it did. Dealing with gender, race, and loss, Jones' poems take readers on an emotional tailspin if you take the time to listen. Poetry isn't for everyone, but this is poetry worth reading.
When does the gene that allows one to enjoy poetry kick in? I just don't get it. I see that this collection is good, I see that there are some striking images, I see that much of it is powerful. But it doesn't resonate with me or effect me much. I looked up Saeed Jones when I picked up this collection off my shelf, and I ended up reading one of his essays online. And OMG, give me more of *that*. The medium of poetry just doesn't work for me, I guess. If it works for you, get you a copy of this collection. Because you, I think, will love it.
I didn't exactly mean to survive myself. -- "Post-Apocalyptic Heartbeat"
Because I follow Saeed on Twitter, I happened to see a tweet a little while back where he said "I'm really glad I didn't kill myself in 2011. It's good to still be here." and having read this collection... I suppose, all I can say is that I'm really glad, too. These poems are so full of power and emotion that they can be a little scary sometimes - a little intimidating - but they're not only some of the best poems I've ever read... they're some of the best things I've ever read period. If you're a nerd like me, you can have fun watching him use septameter and then breaking the meter (see: "Thralldom II") or doing any sorts of other linguistic tricks - and if you're just a passing traveler, read "Boy in a Whalebone Corset". Actually, pick any poem and you'll find something to appreciate and enjoy, whether you're a poetry fan or not. This is a beautiful, haunting, nearly perfect collection.
Praise for Saeed Jones: "Jones is the kind of writer who's more than wanted: he's desperately needed."â??FlavorWire "I get shout-happy when I read these poems; they are the gospel; they are the good news of the sustaining power of imagination, tenderness, and outright joy."â??D. A. Powell â??Prelude to Bruise works its tempestuous mojo just under the skin, wreaking a sweet havoc and rearranging the pulse. These poems don't dole out mercy. Mr. Jones undoubtedly dipped his pen in fierce before crafting these stanzas that rock like backslap. Straighten your skirt, children. The doors of the church are open."â??Patricia Smith â??It's a big book, a major book. A game-changer. Dazzling, brutal, real. Not just brilliant, caustic, and impassioned but a work that brings historyâ??in which the personal and political are inter-constitutiveâ??to the immediate moment. Jones takes a reader deep into lived experience, into a charged world divided among unstable yet entrenched lines: racial, gendered, political, sexual, familial. Here we absorb each quiet resistance, each whoop of joy, a knowledge of violence and of desire, an unbearable ache/loss/yearning. This is not just a â??new voice" but a new song, a new way of singing, a new music made of deep grief's wildfire, of burning intelligence and of all-feeling heart, scorched and seared. In a poem, Jones says, â??Boy's body is a song only he can hear." But now that we have this book, we can all hear it. And it's unforgettable."â??Brenda Shaughnessy â??Inside each hunger, each desire, speaks the voice of a boy that admits 'I've always wanted to be dangerous.' This is not a threat but a promise to break away from the affliction of silence, to make audible the stories that trouble the dimensions of masculinity and discomfort the polite conversations about race. With impressive grace, Saeed Jones situates the queer black body at the center, where his visibility and vulnerability nurture emotional strength and the irrepressible energy to claim those spaces that were once denied or withheld from him. Prelude to a Bruise is a daring debut."â??Rigoberto González From "Sleeping Arrangement": Take your hand out from under my pillow. And take your sheets with you. Drag them under. Make pretend ghosts. I can't have you rattling the bed springs so keep still, keep quiet. Mistake yourself for shadows. Learn the lullabies of lint. Saeed Jonesworks a
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After the prologue the poems are divided up into four sections, after which follows a couple of codas. In the first section, home, childhood, breaking free. Red is at the end of black. Pitch-black unthreads/and swings garnet//in what I thought was home. I'm climbing/out of my father.
In the second, racial and sexual awakening, and self-loathing. In "Jasper, 1998", on the dragging death of James Byrd, Jr.: I speak/in the language of sharp turns. ... Hear me, Jasper./Hear me for miles. About a lover, in "He Thinks He Can Leave Me": and his darkness/mistakes me//for sunrise.
In the third, unsuccessful relationships, and struggling with loneliness. Straight, no chaser, a joke in our bed/but I stopped laughing; all those empty bottles,//kitchen counters covered with beer cans/and broken glasses. To realize you drank//so you could face me the morning after,/the only way to choke down rage at the body//sleeping beside you. What did I know/of your father's backhand or the pine casket//he threatened to put you in? Then, In my empty bed, I dreamed//the record's needle pointed into my back,/spinning me into no one's song.
In the fourth: death. In "Mississippi Drowning", Let me show you how//to make your lungs/a home for minnows, how//to let them flicker//like silver//in and out of your mouth/like last words..., and in "Hour Between Dog & Wolf", In an hour colored tourmaline, I mistake your guitar/for a body in sleep and smash you into effigy,//splinter your way back into my skin.
The coda gives us "History, According to Boy" which reads as an autobiographical prose-poem of growing up black and gay, and finally "Last Portrait as Boy", which hopefully signals growth beyond the hard struggle witnessed thus far, summarized in one of the earlier poems as Half this life I've spent falling out of fourth-story windows.
Strong and enjoyable collection. (