Tyehimba Jess

Photo credits: Keliy-Anderson-Straley as posted on https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/tyehimba-jess

"Jess was born in Detroit where his father worked in that city's Department of Health. His father later became the first vice president of Detroit's chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). Jess's mother was a teacher and nurse, who founded a nursing school at Wayne County Community College in 1972. According to Jess, he started writing poetry at age 16. Within just a few years, when he was 18, he had won second prize for poetry at an NAACP academic competition. Tyehimba Jess earned his BA from the University of Chicago and his MFA from New York University. He is the author of leadbelly (2005) and Olio (2016), winner of the Pulitzer Prize. Jess's inspiration for writing stems from his drive to express history through expression and performance. Jess is the rare poet who bridges slam and academic poetry."

Source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/tyehimba-jess

Live Readings

Poems

Millie-Christine’s Love Story

Here – this is our story I want you to hear –

our own duet. Listen to how we’re bound in unison. Listen to the grace we have

– one body crooning two notes. By God, we’re

like sympathetic strings. Each sung sound ringing within me and my other half;

airborne, shook and shimmering through my head,

with Christine’s voice at my side. I have sung with Millie’s embracing contrapuntal,

in a way very few could comprehend –

with souls ablaze. This is how I know love – so you can see my life is brimmed. It’s full –

with every breath we’ve got. I’m filling completely

the way any other human would love. I live each day like I won’t see its night,

I love my song and dance and family –

the way you love your own blood. Twice as much. I’ve double the cause to celebrate life.

I love this burden that we’ve been given –

To ride the shared wake of one blood’s rhythm…

Click here to read about conjoined twins, Millie & Christine McCoy

leadbelly vs. lomax as the modern language

a costume.dark overalls,handkerchief,and ugly-ass shitkickers,clutched like gifts in his outstretched handschase the stink of mule dirt backinto my head. now he wants meto wrap my music in a brown bag of coonto give them what folks ’spect to see,says i need the genuine look of farm boyto sow blues’ dirty fingers between their earsi rememberfame’s promises:$100 suits is what made me believe.$50 wing tips made me a convert.$5 cigars helped seal the deal.like always,dog-tongued angerlaps at my palms,shrinks my bowelslike a clenched fist

association conference, 1934

an outfit.new blue jeans,clean head wrap,some simple, old, sturdy shoesare a proper field hand’s uniform,down-on-the-farm-familiar:dressing down – it raises godsdark enough to capture the authentic blues,bringing southland to a crowd thatsays they want to hear how it sounds for a blackto scrape heaven’s dusty starlight out of hell.to tally upand close accounts –$3 for the coveralls, and they were on sale.$1 for the work boots, sold at half-price,and here, a handshake serves as contract.it’s strange, but,sometimes loathingbursts from his eyes,pummeling me –striking ’cross my face

let's face it

i’m parole on parade,wanted poster on a short leash,biding time beneath the lawof a master i chose myself.that faded rucksack of yassuhgrowing one load heavierwith each slow grinstitched across my lips

i’m an ex-con’s keeper,something I can’t much forgetin this prison choked country –i cannot absolve this man ofhis greatest crime- the crime of race –binding us all to blood,cutting through skin,burning through history
from leadbelly (2004)

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