In-Depth Look: Carmen Gillespie – “The Blue Black Wet of Wood” (Motionpoems)
Appreciating poetry is often about patience: sitting with a poem, meditating on it, and re-reading it multiple times. With spoken word, we don’t always get a chance to do that. This series is about taking that chance, and diving a little deeper into some of the new poems going up on Button.
“But the distance outlines an edge where a house may have stood…”
While the immediacy of live performance footage is a big part of why slam poetry has really taken off over the past few years, it’s important to remember that spoken word is a much more versatile, dynamic form, one that lends itself to a multitude of different contexts and approaches. I’m reminded of Marc Bamuthi Joseph’s unforgettable spoken word theater work, Ursula Rucker closing out so many Roots albums so powerfully, the lasting influence of Gil Scott-Heron, and so many other poets whose work intersects with music, dance, theater, or other media.
“The Blue Black Wet of Wood” is a short poem, compared to most of the poems on this channel, and lends itself to multiple readings/listens; note how the poem uses color (specifically blue and black), and the suggestive imagery and word choices that accompany that use. Interspersed with dialogue from an interview, as well as the evocative imagery of the video, we get to experience the poem in pieces, allowing each beautifully-crafted lyric phrase to really sink in. The impressionistic effect– the way that the poem, the interview, and the imagery build upon one another– speaks to the power and potential of cross-discipline collaboration and thinking beyond the slam stage.
“this is what shedding your old coat of skin in the suburbs looks like, pretending that you were never cut just so you can bleed again for an audience”
Appreciating poetry is often about patience: sitting with a poem, meditating on it, and re-reading it multiple times. With spoken word, we don’t always get a chance to do that. This series is about taking that chance, and diving a little deeper into some of the new poems going up on Button.
“Sometimes joy means you have to be an archaeologist and an astronomer rolled into one. Sometimes you gotta dig deeper. Sometimes you have to see farther.”
Near the end of 2017, I found myself thinking a lot about anthemic poems— big, inspiring, powerful pieces that go beyond just “being right” about an issue, or just being well-crafted, or just getting high slam scores. For me, anthemic poems are poems that do a specific kind of work– if they’re political, for example, they preach to the choir in a way that is both validating and challenging; they’re not hyper-specific critiques (which can also be good and valuable) as much as they are rallying cries or calls to action. These are poems that don’t just get snaps in spoken word spaces; they could be performed at a march, or a campaign kickoff, or in other spaces where energy and vision are needed.
“Joy” is an anthem. It may not be “political” in the sense described above, but it challenges us to understand the term “political” in a deeper, fuller way. By zooming in on a relatable, human situation, the poem finds an entry point for an exploration of a concept that is too often flattened into greeting-card platitudes. Joy isn’t just falling in love and living happily ever after– it is also “finding yourself warm enough for these lonely winter nights,” and “being beautiful, and not having to have a man tell you so.”
Poems don’t have to have happy endings. They don’t have to teach us things, or have specific thesis statements. But there is power in intentionality, in challenging ourselves to ask “what do I want people to walk away with after they’ve read/heard this poem?” That question gets to the core of how I think about anthems, as well as why I think Harris’ poem works so well.
“Someday I’m gonna have a child. She’s gonna have eyes like mine and such small hands. Just like she’ll need me alive then, she needs me alive now. I can’t say goodbye before I’ve had a chance to say hello.”
