Embedded Files
The Funeral of James Baldwin (August 2, 1924 – December 1, 1987)
by Janice Mautner Markham
first published in the African American Review Vol.29 No.4 - 1995
i sit at home
day in hand
gray cat turned
around my feet
knowing
headlights
pavement
the stopping of
clocks
carnival
of African Drums
dislocates the church hymnals
in unison
the pulse of rhythm beats
hearts into hands
Baraka rants and raves
on a tattered life raft coughing
each word as though it would
bounce back to wound him
Maya's profile pauses in
reverence bowed to a friendship
of pen in hand with red wine
glasses tip-tappin' their
numerous word upon word
a humble tide of David Baldwin
rests safe as a brother can
navigate off shore
but his eyes can not touch
a mother's disbelief
or a mother's question-
"Why has He taken my son?"
Silence and
off
rising from the day
concrete fingerprints of
your blood at my temples
Jimmy
Do not think
I want to hang
I want to fall to you in hell
No
I want to drown
I want to swim to you in heaven
My Lunch with Gertrude Stein
Art Book collaboration with Laurent Neveu, 2018
It was a little awkward at first, my lunch with Gertrude Stein. She seemed generally annoyed with everything at the West Village eatery, from the waiter to the color of the china to the leaves falling off a nearby magnolia.
Decades as an ex-pat and now she’s back, 1934, as our nation falters and climbs and falters again through chronic depression. I see how we could be viewed as twins from afar, though she had seven years on me, and her build and gait were that of a train conductor, whereas mine was more of the commuter, attempting to leap on to that 8:05am into the city. The lapels on my suit were a bit thinner than hers, though I noticed we both kept a folded white handkerchief in our right suit pocket. I was, however, accessory-poor, lacking a broach to hold together a loosely draped neck scarf.
So, I am going to meet with him tomorrow…
Pause.
Did you hear me, Janice? I am going to meet with Charlie Chaplain tomorrow.
I didn’t respond as Gert was always making stuff up. She was constantly writing in her head, so conversation seemed to hang in a loose hammock between trees of reality and fantasy.
Is he going to teach you how to twirl a cane? I asked, unsarcastically.
There was something about this Jane Street Cafe, in heart of my heart of New York, something about this time, about this moment that made me feel I suddenly knew myself. I wanted to tell Gertrude, but she was already leafing through some manuscripts and frowning about something else. And, besides, this lunch doesn’t have to be about me. I wanted to talk about identity and gender pronouns and binary shminary contrary illusionary concepts, but I was interrupted by my lunch-mate:
Scones are useless. I do believe I could write about them, however. So. So. I was saying. I think I will go with Random House, though Alice and I were discussing the name - Random. An unfortunate name for a book publisher, don’t you think?
Well, I --
I mean to say, we dwell in specificity in our most successful moments, so…
It doesn’t matter. The matter doesn’t matter.
But I wouldn’t want to live in a random house.
Lady McBeth with a Hangover
The Poetry Motel, 1996
two
many vodka
tonics with Banquo
the fight before
some bad sex
now
a matinee in a
fogged chorus of
shaking heads
Hecate stares at
me from the wings
twists grey
synthetic
strands of hair
out damn slot
out i say i want
out of i can't
quite remember the
past out
before
curtain call
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