The World Falls Away

By Wanda Coleman

The burnings from which Coleman culls her work casts a glow and unique warmth that invites the reader to sit by her metaphorical hearth, to laugh and enjoy their "conversation." The contemplative and philosophical have entered her voice as she continues to explore the conflicts and confusions that shape the aesthetic terrain of Southern California and beyond—as she continues to grapple with cultural bias, malignant domestic neglect, poverty, and the damages of racism, yet broadening her palette of social ills to include the privacies of grief, loss and transcendence. A nominee and finalist for Poet Laureate of California, she continues to reflect the ethnic scramble of Los Angeles, where she has been honored by proclamations from the city's elected officials, including the mayor's office, the city council and the Department of Cultural Affairs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of Pittsburgh Press
• Release date: Sep 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9780822978336

Wanda Coleman

Wanda Coleman—poet, storyteller and journalist—was born and raised in South Central Los Angeles. Coleman was awarded the prestigious 1999 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize for Bathwater Wine from the American Academy of Poets, becoming the first African-American woman to ever win the prize, and Mercurochrome was a bronze-medal finalist for the 2001 National Book Award for Poetry. Wicked Enchantment: Selected Poems was the first new collection of her work since her death in 2013.

Book preview

I. VISITATIONS & SIGHTINGS

THEY ABANDON THE SEARCH FOR FEDERICO

           how fitting

that the moon-ridden bones of a poet

should prove illusive in the fall of day

avoiding discovery by nose or suspicion

evading the public relations celebrations

of notorious times

           how fitting

that the savviest of archeologists

and historians could not disturb

decades of rest, the somnambulate remains

of a rebel wordsmith/a seeker of men, a seeker

           of the ultimate freedom

           how fitting

what did they expect to find?

the decayed hips of ironic roses?

the yawning intellect slipping into

sack-inspired siestas on humid Andalusian

afternoons? the somber remainders

of a New York skyline? the ice-cold eyes

of lovers frosted over with failed romance?

the sanguineous leaves of unread confessions?

the expelled cartridges of redolent betrayal?

what did they expect to find?

that moment when one particular world

concluded? or the final notes of a paean

to the unknown?

grave, grave, i want you grave … .

ON CLEANING UP ALL THESE ASHES IN THE SAND

—for Ian Wayne after E. E. Miller

           1.

What if I told you Rappaccini also had a son?

Would you believe me?

           2.

During Indian summer 1955, I decided to live life sidewise—

head pointing to Manhattan, heart in the West.

           3.

My father takes me to Disneyland. He tells me America

rises from a sea of blood. Learn to cry while you laugh.

           4.

When I was a teenager, I was mother's keeper.

I disappeared from the kitchen to make history.

           5.

What is the difference between revolution and resolution?

None.

           6.

I learned retard intonation with a Dixie twang.

Colorism makes clowns of us all.

           7.

I taught Malcolm X how to fix a hex.

Not everyone loves fingering on improper pianos.

           8.

A lifetime of playing to empty auditoriums

ignites a raging fire of intellect and verbosity.

           9.

Diane Arbus lent me her eyes.

I consulted my I Ching and found a world missing.

           10.

White teeth and a big smile.

Melodrama rides on my tongue.

           11.

Fame made me an unknown woman.

I don't get paid for describing misery. I don't get paid.

           12.

Let me explain about Mami Wata.

That will tell you why I'm here and not there.

           13.

How long will I survive Los Angeles sans moolah?

I'm holding my breath. Keep counting.

           14.

Connubial love is a slow roast over hot wood

while dancing from a noose. No escape.

           15.

Mother died three years ago.

She has been trying to reach me in my sleep.

           16.

There is no poison I have not swallowed.

I have known blackness.

DOLLS (3)

plastic succubae, they haunted my childhood sleep—those

throbless creatures with odd necks that snapped or crumbled

when thrown from the bed or bashed with a hammer

and i would wake into the welcoming dark, relieved

for those rosy-cheeked specters with fingers that would not part

had vanished and i could will myself to better dreams, forget

those blank voids that caused me cringings—for although

i could not appreciate death, i understood not living

THE ESSENTIAL FLAVORS OF THE FINITE

                                          garlic onion sea

"taste your food before

you salt it," Mama snapped

from the kitchen doorway

where she stood at the stove

at the dining room table her

starving brood surrounded their plates,

having just rushed in from playing

baseball, dodge ball, hide-and-seek,

and jacks with neighbor kids

the saltiness of our youth rolled

from our thick scalps, along slender

glistening arms and down our backs,

wetting and staining our T-shirts

one by one, spoons in left hands, we

reached for the shaker with our rights as

it passed hand-to-hand while grace

was hastily said then jokes were cracked

while snow-white crystals melted into

homemade goodness. no sooner

was a fresh platter or steamy bowl

set before us than the salt resumed

           rotations

to settle into the flesh of our futures

encouraging the urge to have and eat more

and we were unmindful of the excess or

the damages to come

while Mama forever warned from

the kitchen, Put that shaker down!

                                                     garlic onion sea

NOTHING TO TAKE BACK

i have never lost the night

candle wax. a chorus of witches on the brew

i own it, it owns me

(as i slow for security check, the ancient one who guards by day

inspects the pass on my windshield through sun-baked squints,

tells me last night someone stole my car!)

night things:          a stippled stallion full gallop through moonless glade

                               the shadow arms of Joshuas raised in prayer

                               tumbleweed burning against the horizon

                               the movement of invisibles on back trails

as a child i heard it in the cry of the puma

as a mother i smelled it on the breath of my dying boy

as a lover it penetrates and sates my longings

it shapes my temperament colors my destiny

i have never lost the night. it lives under my table,

guides me through a gallery of pains, dogs my moves

as i swoop the merciless roads

i will never lose the night. it will always say

you're beautiful

i am it, it is me

it will always