A lot has happened these past few months here at 2Leaf Press and our little kingdom. While we were experiencing illnesses (I myself landed in the hospital) coupled with weird New York weather, we recently got hit with a rash of deaths that knocked us all for a loop from both family members and the literary community at large. First, we express our heartfelt condolences to 2LP authors Stephanie Agosto and Abiodun Oyewole, both of whom have recently lost dear family members.
While all of this was going on, we also lost some pretty terrific poets and artists along the way. Wanda Coleman, who passed away in November, was a well-respected poet, much adored in the LA community. In fact, there were memorial tributes happening as late as January 20th in Los Angeles. I only met Wanda once and did not know her well, but I respected her work and the community activism she was committed to her entire life.
So while the poetry community of the West was reeling from the loss of their poet, friend and mentor, here on the East coast we experienced a similar blow with the passing of Amiri Baraka on January 9th. While I knew some inside information on that situation, I was really shocked that he died. In fact, his last words to us were “see you after the fifth” the week before he went into the hospital to have what was seemingly a standard surgical procedure. After January 5th, Abiodun Oyewole and I were to meet with him to discuss the introduction of Abiodun’s forthcoming book, BRANCHES OF THE TREE OF LIFE. In the aftermath of this tragic loss, I attended Baraka’s wake with the poet Shirley Bradley LeFlore, but was unable to attend the funeral, although I heard it was wonderful and at some point will catch it on video. (Ain’t it weird? We’re living in a time where we watch funeral videos!)
The poetry community in general and in particular, the Latino and Black literary communities, have been dealt some heavy blows with the loss of their heroes in recent years, such as Louis Reyes Rivera, Jayne Cortez, Tato Laviera, and Oscar Hijuelos. We recently lost John Watusi Branch, founder of the Afrikan Poetry Theater; and Alvin Aubert, founder of the journal Obsidian: Black Literature in Review, (now known as Obsidian: Literature in the African Diaspora) which was an early forum for African American literature and literary criticism. This past year we lost musicians such as Bobby Bland, Donald Byrd, Richie Havens, Eddie Perez, Tony Pabon, and Yusef Lateef who were jazz/blues, folk and world musicians whose names were not readily known in the greater community, but nevertheless, known for their contributions of great music. This list is not exhaustive to say the least, just a mere sampling of the many artists that seem to be leaving us in droves.
And then there is Juan Gelman, an Argentine poet who recently died at age 83 on January 22nd. He challenged the petty and profound tyrannies of his country’s military junta — including those directed against his family — in works that established him as a formidable presence in the Spanish-language literary canon. He was exiled and his family members were killed. I have to admit, I’m only vaguely familiar with his work, but what struck me is that this guy was a poet that fought the good fight just like the poets we’ve recently lost, which just goes to show how universal the role of the poet is, globally.
What I find remarkable about a poet’s death is that the loss is so personal, even if you didn’t know the poet personally, because it became personal the moment you began reading their poetry. And after they die, whenever you pick up one of their books and read their work, for that brief moment they become alive again. It’s as if the reading of their words revives them, if only for a few brief moments. This is the power of poetry. This is also perhaps the biggest reason why people want to write, so that their work can be widely read and make an impact in people’s lives. Good poets never die; their words last forever. Great poets who understand the power of poetry use it to exploit justice and peace, whether there’s a place for them in the literary canon or not. In fact, when I think of poets like Coleman, Baraka, Gelman, Branch and Aubert, it reminds me of one of my favorite speeches about poetry and poets:
When power leads men towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses. For art establishes the basic human truth which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment. . . .
If sometimes our great artists have been the most critical of our society, it is because their sensitivity and their concern for justice, which must motivate any true artist, makes him aware that our Nation falls short of its highest potential. I see little of more importance to the future of our country and our civilization than full recognition of the place of the artist. . . .
If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes him. We must never forget that art is not a form of propaganda; it is a form of truth.
President John F. Kennedy read this in 1963 at Amherst College in Massachusetts in honor of his friend, the poet Robert Frost, who had died earlier that year. In a time like this, I return to his speech because it really defines, in my mind, what poets are supposed to be about. So when you read what critics say, beware, it ain’t necessarily those “truths” that Kennedy was talking about. Because here’s the thing: poets who live in the public eye do what all poets do, they experiment, try different approaches, create movements, followings and trends, and then change your mind and try something else, in search of truths. It’s called “growth” folks, and if you’re a true artist you grow and change. And if you don’t grow and change and remain stagnant, you’re not really a true artist.
In witnessing the recent loss of Baraka, many folks opined, “Who will take on the mantle now?” “Who will lead?” We lead, with our own conscious. We lead ourselves, produce good work, and then come together to support each other’s work and visions. We don’t have to see eye-to-eye on everything because as individuals, we’re built differently but as artists, there should be some common ground we can meet on, which is: (1) our courage to choose art over commerce, (2) our love for community, and (3) our thirst for justice.
The poet Robert Pinsky once asserted that poetry is “part of our shared communal life, as surely as is the Internet.” The participation of poets in the public scene is “part of the civic life of art, a part of the way society held onto the art of poetry, thereby preserving it for the unborn.” I agree. You have to participate to be in it. You have to make a public presence and make a scene, if you know what I mean, and pass it on to the next generation. Poets like Coleman, Baraka, Gelman, Branch and Aubert did that and more; they made a difference to their families and communities, all the while making considerable contributions to the literary world with their good works. Instead of worrying about who should lead, we should be reassessing the poet’s role in the community and come together to become a more unified force to be reckoned with.
I’ll be watching very closely to see what happens in the coming months ahead. I think there’s room for positive change in the poetry community in New York City, and 2Leaf Press is working very hard to help make some of those changes. So as we continue to move forward, we’ll see you in the front lines.
— Gabrielle David
Publisher
