{"id":311,"date":"2017-03-23T17:15:35","date_gmt":"2017-03-23T17:15:35","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/ctlsites.uga.edu\/poeticskewels3050\/?p=311"},"modified":"2017-03-23T17:20:12","modified_gmt":"2017-03-23T17:20:12","slug":"the-dark-collective-final","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/ctlsites.uga.edu\/poeticskewels3050\/the-dark-collective-final\/","title":{"rendered":"The Dark Collective Final"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

What was often mistaken for a small Sunday afternoon book club at the Victorian house on 31 Inman Street in Massachusetts, actually turned into a major cultural movement. Who would\u2019ve thought that from this a boom in African-American poetry known as the Dark Room Collective would come about.<\/p>\n

This boom did not focus on the negative aspects of African-American history, but more on the up-lifting side. The group didn\u2019t whine, they didn\u2019t so much want to argue, or to focus on the hard times in their heritage, but they wanted to show the world the imagination that can be gained from their history.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Picture this: every Sunday the house of Thomas Sayers Ellis and Sharan Strange was transformed into a studio, or a type of\u00a0 performance. Many say that no one even knew who lived there and who didn\u2019t at times as the crowds grew more and more each week. As time went on, the series began to extend to musical performances, art shows and even workshops for writers of color in the community. The reading series was started with a simple purpose, for black writers to embrace their heritage and to be proud of it. The overarching mission of the Collective was to form a community of established and emerging African-American writers<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Soon enough word got out, and the series blew up! From thrown together to an organized group, the Dark Room Collective was now composed of a melting pot of races, ethnicities and ages. Eventually, the group had to find a new home that would fit the entire family. The group relocated to the Institute of Contemporary Art in Boston when it outgrew the living room in Cambridge. In 1994, the group packed up and moved again to relocate to the Boston Playwrights\u2019 Theatre at Boston University.<\/p>\n

The Dark Room Collective stopped\u00a0after a decade or so, however, some of its members in their 40s, had gone on to become famous literary figures winning major prizes. One example is Natasha Trethewey, who won the Pulitzer Prize for her book in 2006, \u201cNative Guard,\u201d and is the nation\u2019s poet laureate. Other famous poets from dark room collective:\u00a0Tracy K. Smith won the Pulitzer for \u201cLife on Mars\u201d in 2012, writers Kevin Young, Carl Phillips and Major Jackson have all been recognized as prolific and influential voices in American poetry.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

In a way, the Dark Room Collective was a collaborative way for writers to say, \u201cLet\u2019s celebrate saying, \u2018Hell yeah! This is our heritage, and this is how we can tell the world!\u2019\u201d In a New York Times article by Jeff Gordinier he quoted\u00a0Mr. Adrian Matejka, who is part of a poetic organization that came out of the Dark Room Collective. Matejka described the Dark Room Collective\u00a0as a \u201cshift out of the \u2018I\u2019m a black man in America and it\u2019s hard\u2019 mode\u201d into \u201cthe idea of \u2018you are who you are, so that\u2019s always going to be part of the poem,\u2019\u00a0\u201d with \u201ca lot more room for the sublime experience of language.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

Don’t You Wonder, Sometimes?<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

BY\u00a0TRACY K. SMITH<\/a><\/span><\/h2>\n

1.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n
\n
\n
After dark, stars glisten like ice, and the distance they span<\/div>\n
Hides something elemental. Not God, exactly. More like<\/div>\n
Some thin-hipped glittering Bowie-being\u2014a Starman<\/div>\n
Or cosmic ace hovering, swaying, aching to make us see.<\/div>\n
And what would we do, you and I, if we could know for sure<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
That someone was there squinting through the dust,<\/div>\n
Saying nothing is lost, that everything lives on waiting only<\/div>\n
To be wanted back badly enough? Would you go then,<\/div>\n
Even for a few nights, into that other life where you<\/div>\n
And that first she loved, blind to the future once, and happy?<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Would I put on my coat and return to the kitchen where my<\/div>\n
Mother and father sit waiting, dinner keeping warm on the stove?<\/div>\n
Bowie will never die. Nothing will come for him in his sleep<\/div>\n
Or charging through his veins. And he\u2019ll never grow old,<\/div>\n
Just like the woman you lost, who will always be dark-haired<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
And flush-faced, running toward an electronic screen<\/div>\n
That clocks the minutes, the miles left to go. Just like the life<\/div>\n
In which I\u2019m forever a child looking out my window at the night sky<\/div>\n
Thinking one day I\u2019ll touch the world with bare hands<\/div>\n
Even if it burns.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 2.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
He leaves no tracks. Slips past, quick as a cat. That\u2019s Bowie<\/div>\n
For you: the Pope of Pop, coy as Christ. Like a play<\/div>\n
Within a play, he\u2019s trademarked twice. The hours<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Plink past like water from a window A\/C. We sweat it out,<\/div>\n
Teach ourselves to wait. Silently, lazily, collapse happens.<\/div>\n
But not for Bowie. He cocks his head, grins that wicked grin.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Time never stops, but does it end? And how many lives<\/div>\n
Before take-off, before we find ourselves<\/div>\n
Beyond ourselves, all glam-glow, all twinkle and gold?<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
The future isn\u2019t what it used to be. Even Bowie thirsts<\/div>\n
For something good and cold. Jets blink across the sky<\/div>\n
Like migratory souls.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 3.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Bowie is among us. Right here<\/div>\n
In New York City. In a baseball cap<\/div>\n
And expensive jeans. Ducking into<\/div>\n
A deli. Flashing all those teeth<\/div>\n
At the doorman on his way back up.<\/div>\n
Or he\u2019s hailing a taxi on Lafayette<\/div>\n
As the sky clouds over at dusk.<\/div>\n
He\u2019s in no rush. Doesn\u2019t feel<\/div>\n
The way you\u2019d think he feels.<\/div>\n
Doesn\u2019t strut or gloat. Tells jokes.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
I\u2019ve lived here all these years<\/div>\n
And never seen him. Like not knowing<\/div>\n
A comet from a shooting star.<\/div>\n
But I\u2019ll bet he burns bright,<\/div>\n
Dragging a tail of white-hot matter<\/div>\n
The way some of us track tissue<\/div>\n
Back from the toilet stall. He\u2019s got<\/div>\n
The whole world under his foot,<\/div>\n
And we are small alongside,<\/div>\n
Though there are occasions<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
When a man his size can meet<\/div>\n
Your eyes for just a blip of time<\/div>\n
And send a thought like SHINE<\/div>\n
SHINE SHINE SHINE SHINE<\/div>\n
Straight to your mind. Bowie,<\/div>\n
I want to believe you. Want to feel<\/div>\n
Your will like the wind before rain.<\/div>\n
The kind everything simply obeys,<\/div>\n
Swept up in that hypnotic dance<\/div>\n
As if something with the power to do so<\/div>\n
Had looked its way and said:<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Go ahead.<\/em><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

More poems by Tracy K. Smith:\u00a0https:\/\/www.poetryfoundation.org\/poems-and-poets\/poems\/detail\/55520<\/a><\/p>\n

https:\/\/www.poetryfoundation.org\/poems-and-poets\/poems\/detail\/56376<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Aunties<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

BY\u00a0KEVIN YOUNG<\/a><\/span><\/h2>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
There’s a way a woman<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 will not<\/div>\n
relinquish<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
her pocketbook<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 even pulled<\/div>\n
onstage, or called up<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
to the pulpit\u2014<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 there’s a way only<\/div>\n
your Auntie can make it<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
taste right\u2014<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0rice & gravy<\/div>\n
is a meal<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
if my late Great Aunt<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Toota makes it\u2014<\/div>\n
Aunts cook like<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
there’s no tomorrow<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0& they’re right.<\/div>\n
Too hot<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
is how my Aunt Tuddie<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 peppers everything,<\/div>\n
her name given<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
by my father, four, seeing<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 her smiling in her crib.<\/div>\n
There’s a barrel<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
full of rainwater<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 beside the house<\/div>\n
that my infant father will fall<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
into, trying to see<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0himself\u2014the bottom\u2014<\/div>\n
& there’s his sister<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Margie yanking him out<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0by his hair grown long<\/div>\n
as superstition. Never mind<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
the flyswatter they chase you<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 round the house<\/div>\n
& into the yard with<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
ready to whup the daylights<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 out of you\u2014<\/div>\n
that’s only a threat\u2014<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Aunties will fix you<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0potato salad<\/div>\n
& save<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
you some. Godmothers,<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0godsends,<\/div>\n
Aunts smoke like<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
it’s going out of style\u2014<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0& it is\u2014<\/div>\n
make even gold<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
teeth look right, shining.<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0saying\u00a0I’ll be<\/em><\/div>\n
John<\/em>, with a sigh. Make way<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
out of no way\u2014<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 keep they key<\/div>\n
to the scale that weighed<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
the cotton, the cane<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 we raised more<\/div>\n
than our share of\u2014<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
If not them, then who<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0will win heaven?<\/div>\n
holding tight<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
to their pocketbooks<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 at the pearly gates<\/div>\n
just in case.<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

More poems by\u00a0Kevin Young:\u00a0https:\/\/www.poetryfoundation.org\/poems-and-poets\/poems\/detail\/58069<\/a><\/p>\n

https:\/\/www.poetryfoundation.org\/poems-and-poets\/poems\/detail\/49763<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Resources:<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cA Brief Guide to the Dark Room Collective.\u201d Poets.org, Academy of American Poets, 9 May 2004, www.poets.org\/poetsorg\/text\/brief-guide-dark-room-collective.<\/p>\n

Gordinier, Jeff. \u201cThe Dark Room Collective: Where Black Poetry Took Wing.\u201d New York Times, 27 May 2014, www.nytimes.com\/2014\/05\/27\/arts\/the-dark-room-collective-where-black-poetry-took-wing.html?_r=0.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Dark Room Collective, Then and Now.\u201d Poets and Writers, www.pw.org\/content\/the_dark_room_collective_then_and_now<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

What was often mistaken for a small Sunday afternoon book club at the Victorian house on 31 Inman Street in Massachusetts, actually turned into a major cultural movement. Who would\u2019ve thought that from this a boom in African-American poetry known as the Dark Room Collective would come about. This boom did not focus on the … Continue reading The Dark Collective Final<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2469,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-311","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"acf":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ctlsites.uga.edu\/poeticskewels3050\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/311","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ctlsites.uga.edu\/poeticskewels3050\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ctlsites.uga.edu\/poeticskewels3050\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ctlsites.uga.edu\/poeticskewels3050\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2469"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ctlsites.uga.edu\/poeticskewels3050\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=311"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/ctlsites.uga.edu\/poeticskewels3050\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/311\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ctlsites.uga.edu\/poeticskewels3050\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=311"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ctlsites.uga.edu\/poeticskewels3050\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=311"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ctlsites.uga.edu\/poeticskewels3050\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=311"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}