Blum & Poe Broadcasts presents free and public access to scholarship and writerly ponderings from our publications archives.
In focus this week—excerpts from Sam Durant's The Meeting House / Build Therefore Your Own World (Los Angeles: Blum & Poe, 2017), on the artist's project contextualizing American canonical historical narratives alongside lesser-known histories of slavery and the treatment of African Americans, from the founding of the colonies to the present day.
From this project, Broadcasts features poetry by Los Angeles poet laureate Robin Coste Lewis.
Inhabitants and Visitors
NOTE: In 1854, Thoreau published his now canonical Walden: Or, Life in the Woods. Well-regarded for its exploration of nineteenth-century subsistence living, Thoreau also included a chapter that explored the community of free Blacks living around Walden Pond long before he arrived. He titled this chapter “Former Inhabitants and Winter Visitors.” My poem below is an erasure of Thoreau’s chapter. Like Walden at the time of Thoreau’s experiment, for me this chapter contained a hidden call to the historical rediscovery of African American histories embroidering Concord, and hence, America. Therefore, in order to extend Thoreau’s experiment, I removed and rearranged several lines from Thoreau’s chapter in order to magnify, lyrically, the free black community that once lived there.
In honor of the opening of
The National Museum of African American History and Culture
and
Dedicated to Kevin Young,
with profound admiration,
on the occasion of being named Director of
the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture
My fireside,
My darkline,
My border-dotted
dwelling.
My own alone,
My firm open,
My across the road,
My gentle permission.
My narrow present
half-obliterated fringe
of now—
golden, luxuriant.
My still-shrill war
dwelling on parole—
Inhumane bricks amid
the oak copse there.
My discolored emphasis—black,
blacker than any dusky orb,
before or since
My orchard of location.
My-thology
(Prominent. Astounding.)
My biography
(robs and murders
the whole history
enacted here).
Let Time intervene
the most distinct and dubious tradition
Saluted—
standing—
unoccupied
election.
My labored lethargy, awake,
My poetry skipping,
My bells rung in hot haste.
Engines fire all together. Fresh sparks.
My ever and anon,
My cooled ardor
thought concluded.
Speaking trumpets,
Passage in the preface,
The soul’s only survivor.
Heir of burning first moments.
My gaze, my always, remembered absolutely.
My mere presence,
My dark heaven,
which could never be burned
or mounted.
The iron hook
hangs history
(Once more
on the left).
My earthen descendants,
My sufferance,
My vain form.
Midsummer Man carrying a load—
My inquired concern,
A potter’s wheel of him,
Clay and wheel scripture—
An art ever-practiced.
Last inhabitants
of these woods
before me,
Names with coil,
Civil speech carmine,
curled up by use—
The last symbol a dim garden over-run
with Roman beggar-ticks.
My dent in the earth,
This site
These dwellings:
buried cellar stones—
and strawberries,
thimble-berries,
hazel-bush,
chimney nook,
Sweet-scented black waves
where the door was sometimes
the well
Visible.
Fate, free-will, fore-
knowledge absolute. Form
and dialect
edifying as philosophy.
My vivacious
lilac generation,
the door and lintel and sill
are unfolding.
Plucked by the traveller,
tended by children
in front-yard plots
now standing.
Lone century
universally thirsty
making the wilderness
blossom like the rose:
Deliver me from a city
built on the site of a more ancient city
whose materials are ruins,
whose gardens cemeteries.
My season
wanderer
My house for a week
or a fortnight at a time
My great snow of 1717
My long time buried
without food
My hole, which the chimney’s breath made in the drift.
My house,
My meandering dotted line,
Same number of steps, same length,
coming and going.
My own deep tracks,
Heaven’s own blue,
My deepest appointment,
My plainly erect neck.
Feathers, lids, winged brother
of the peninsular relation,
My nearer approach.
Impatient
Delicate twilight,
New perch,
Peace smitten on one cheek—
notwithstanding the odor of morale
(Church or State haul
Load of manure
Large fires
Clear when others failed).
My darkness, my lamp
through the trees, like the nut its kernel.
Unsuspected faith,
God of Defaced and Leaning Monuments.
Enter ye
O World behind us
Pledge no institution
whichever way we turn
Blue-robed roof, Mother of pearl flocks,
form and dissolve the fable, every
circular inch. Open its seams.
Long to be remembered.
Expect the Visitor who never comes.
Say, “Remain at eventide,
as long as it takes, long enough
to milk a whole herd of cows.”