缅北强奸

The Meter Reader: Tiana Clark's poems in听I Can't Talk 缅北强奸 the Trees Without The Blood听"witness and embody the past"

Amie Whittemore

搁别惫颈别飞别诲:听I Can鈥檛 Talk 缅北强奸 the Trees Without The Blood听by Tiana Clark (Winner of the Agnes Lynch Starrett Poetry Prize, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018).

Tiana Clark鈥檚 first full length collection,听I Can鈥檛 Talk 缅北强奸 the Trees Without The Blood,听is as much about race and gender (and how they intersect) as it is about the ways language intersects with race and racism, gender and sexism, self and others: 鈥渢he most dangerous game, for me, is sex and syntax,鈥� Clark鈥檚 speaker offers in 鈥淩ituals,鈥� and, perhaps, that is because they both give birth to us: we come from sex, but we are spoken into the world, shaped by how we name the world as much as by how it names us.

This dynamic is at the crux of Clark鈥檚 powerful opening narrative poem about her hometown, 鈥淣ashville.鈥� In it she provides a history of gentrification and systemic racism, describing how

I-40 bisected the black community

like a tourniquet of concrete. There were no highway exits.

120 businesses closed. Ambulance siren driving over

the house that called 911, diminishing howl in the distance,

听

black bodies going straight to the morgue.

Clark then takes us to downtown Nashville, to the 鈥渉erds of squealing pink bachelorette parties,鈥� where 鈥渟omeone yelled听Nigger-lover听at my husband. Again.鈥� 鈥�Who said it,鈥� her speaker wonders, searching the scene for the source; Clark also interrogates the word itself, joined鈥攁nd simultaneously鈥攂roken by a hyphen that 鈥渃rackles and bites, / burns the body to a spray of white wisps.鈥� Here, and later in 鈥淐onversation with Phillis Wheatley #1,鈥� she envisions the hyphen as the mark that embodies black history and lives in the United States, the hyphen a symbol of the slave ship on which Wheatley was born, 鈥渢he scorching center of this moving hyphen鈥� // African-American: dash exposing the break.鈥�

For Clark as for Faulkner, 鈥�.鈥� The past haunts and burdens Clark鈥檚 speaker: 鈥淚 carry so many black souls / in my skin, sometimes I swear it vibrates,鈥� she writes in 鈥淪oil Horizon.鈥� However, these connections to the past also, at times, offer solace and wisdom, particularly through the black women who populate them鈥攚hich include her ancestors, Phillis Wheatley, Nina Simone, and her mother.

Several poems are 鈥渁fter鈥� poems, including a sequence after dances choreographed by George Balanchine. In one, 鈥淎fter Orpheus,鈥� the speaker moves from observing the dance, 鈥淥rpheus tears off his mask, the ballerina听听听 collapses / for the floor,鈥� to internal observation:

I think about patience听听听听听听听听听听听听听 and its stupid song.

听

I can鈥檛 wait鈥斕�听听听听听听听听听听听听听 Yes, I鈥檓 always looking听听听听听听听听听听 back

听

听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听 at my dead.

As demonstrated here, Clark鈥檚 poems witness and embody the past through these deft shifts between exterior and interior observation as well as the complex use of white space, as both a disruptive and meditative tool in its slowing of the poem鈥檚 construction of meaning. Her poems are also acts of love. Her poems in conversation with Phillis Wheatley are tender, particularly when she imagines into existence a letter from Obour Tanner, 鈥淲heatley鈥檚 only known correspondent of African descent鈥� (鈥淣otes鈥�) to Wheatley:

I was a dozen broken roses, bruised as velvet,

English and reaching desire听听听听听 for you,

听

across听听听听听听听听听听听听听听 the pews, across听听听听听听听听听听 the vast|empty spaces, where two slaves

听听听听听听听听听听听 (who could read and write) could touch鈥攅ach other鈥攖here, as women

听

and call it: Praise.

As this excerpt exhibits, Clark鈥檚 poems are full of lacunae and parentheticals, and often sweep across the page: they recognize the limits of speech while also resisting the forces that attempt to silence black women.

In听, Mark Doty writes that there is a morality to description, lying in 鈥渞efusal, in that which the writer will not diminish by the attempt to supply words.鈥� Sometimes Clark鈥檚 poems enact this refusal through white space, as in poems like 鈥淎fter Orpheus.鈥� At other times, this refusal is made even more prominent through the use of brackets, as in 鈥淒ead Bug,鈥� a poem in which the speaker tries to be witness to her own trauma, a rape she experienced as an adolescent:听When I was a [ 听听听], I spoke as a [听听听听 ], I understood as a [听听听 ].听Here, through the combination of borrowed biblical language and empty brackets, Clark demonstrates the impossibility of articulating trauma. Her speaker reinforces this attempt in the poem鈥檚 wrenching closing image:

There is a dead cockroach in the corner.

听

I won鈥檛 pick it up. I keep sweeping

(around)

听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听 the thing on the floor

Thus, what鈥檚 avoided is also present: in a single life and in a country鈥檚 fraught history. You can鈥檛 ignore what is(n鈥檛) there.

Clark鈥檚 collection is deserving of the rich praise it has already received; what I most admired is how expertly it expresses heart and mind, vulnerability and incisive intelligence. Alongside tender poems about Clark鈥檚 mother or husband, such as the lovely lyric, 鈥淢other Driving Away After Christmas,鈥� are wrenching indictments of racism, such as 鈥淭he Ayes Have It.鈥� The poems are also formally ambitious: 鈥淭he Rime of Nina Simone,鈥� loosely based off of Samuel Taylor Coleridge鈥檚 鈥淭he Rime of the Ancient Mariner,鈥� is a powerful meta-commentary on the collection itself and its exploration of black pain; Simone tells the speaker, 鈥渢hey only / wanted cocktail jazz, folk, and blues, // for me to bleed negro, a signifyin(g) / monkey from my classical piano.鈥� The speaker responds that she needs to be in her graduate poetry program, needs to 鈥渢ell them when my chest tightens and flares up / when they try to conjure the other, a fantastic / field of fictitious black and brown bodies.鈥� Clark鈥檚 speaker is urgently aware of the power of language, of whose stories get told, and by whom, and she refuses to yield that power or yield to those who would diminish her with their words. Therefore, while the collection ends with a memory of the first time someone called her the N-word, 鈥渢he red听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听 hot听g听sounds听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听听 ringing fire songs / in her ears鈥澨� (鈥淗ow to Find the Center of a Circle鈥�), it is also a beginning: of claiming her voice and her right to name her pain and her triumphs, of owning her and her ancestors鈥� stories, and elegantly, poignantly shaping how they鈥檙e told.