Patricia Smith

I miss the Temptations.

Recently reflecting rather gleefully on the second half of my first century, I felt exactly one twinge of regret. The Motown era is over.
Of course, it’s been over for some time. Diana Ross is now officially deranged. Smokey Robinson seems to have gone the Vegas route, and the Miracles are no more. The Four Tops are no longer four, or on top. Stevie Wonder flashes his brilliance about once every couple of years. And the Jackson 5–well, it’s now basically the Jackson 1, and his nose is missing.
Plus, I spent last year in the company of some very precocious 7th and 8th graders who not only didn’t know what “records” were, but had never heard of Motown. Am I the only one who believes that “My Girl” and “Tears of a Clown” should be a part of every budding teen’s curriculum?
Anyways, as far as I’m concerned, the Temptations were Motown. Check out the video…isn’t it the coolest, slickest, sexiest thing you’ve seen in years? Those handsome lads in sharkskin were my introduction to poetry. Their songs were lyrical, their songs told the bestest boy-meet-girl-boy-loses-girl-boy-begs-relentlessly stories, their songs were where I first learned that life could sound pretty damned good.
But the modern-day Temps, full of imposters and also-rans, are simply a hollow whisper of the original. From left to right in the opening moment of the YouTube clip–Melvin Franklin, the bassman, was the most recent to die, of heart failure; Eddie Kendricks succumbed to lung cancer; Otis Williams is the only original Temp still alive; Paul Williams committed suicide and David Ruffin died in a Philly crack house. Damn.
So what kind of a Motown baby am I? Obsessed. I”m madly obsessed with Otis Williams, because he’s all that’s left, because he represents a time when everything was starkly choreographed and poured into passionate little stanzas. Love, passion, deceit, heartbreak, all of it trapped in a glistening black disc, released by the plop of a needle, and played over and over again. And a little colored girl on the west side of Chicago listened, and felt the song in everything.
I want to grab hold to the moment that began this, the moment when I felt that poetry could tell it all. That’s why I’m the gal at the jukebox, wailing every Motown song long and aloud, trying to hold onto something that slipping away.
Am I crazy? Is it just me?

07.25.07 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (2)

Patricia Smith

Whew. It’s over.

Finished with 3rd MFA residency. Incredibly tired. Just back from lobster bake thingie where no lobsters were visibly baked. Ten days in creative nirvana. Maine cooperated, kinda (rain). Shunned TV and most internet, have no idea at all what’s going on in the world. Got some incredibly luscious news, but can’t tell ya yet. My Spenserian stanzas worked! Fell in love with May Swenson and fell in love again with June Jordan. Thrilled to learn the connection between Sanchez and Bogan. Third-semester critical essay looms. Studying quite intensively with the inimitable Annie Finch. Woman never met a dactyl she didn’t like. I will be worked mercilessly. It will be exquisite. Let’s get that party started. Stonecoast feels like my home now. I’m tired. Really tired. Wanted to say hi to you guys. Tired. Six-hour drive looms. Tired.
Tired.

07.15.07 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (3)

Patricia Smith

If this is Tuesday, what hat am I wearing?

Whew.
Last week, I was on the faculty of one of the most challenging, groundbreaking creative retreats in the country, surrounded by students whose work was so good it made me shudder.
This week, I’m up at midnight in a sweltering dorm room, staring at a scanned version of Robert Frost’s “Mending Wall” and wondering if I can spit out a joint mimicking his style before exhaustion pulls me under. This is–I can’t believe it either–HOMEWORK.
Welcome to the world of the poet/teacher/student known as me, doggedly pursuing a graduate degree in being creative. With very little turnaround time, I have morphed from respected teacher to the marginal superhero known as MFA Girl. I don’t wear a mask, because my eyes are bloodshot anyway. My cape is the scratchy little towel I wear to scoot across the hall to the bathroom. I can’t fly. I can barely even walk. Right now, MFA stands for Must Fall Asleep.
How, oh how, did I get here?

07.09.07 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (4)

Patricia Smith

Cave Canem 2007

07.05.07 PERMALINK | COMMENTS (4)

Patricia Smith

Oh, HELL yeah…

In a review of my book “Teahouse of the Almighty” in the Summer/Fall 2007 issue of Gulf Coast, in the best review I’ve ever received of anything I’ve ever written, in a strikingly glowing review, in one of those reviews that makes me wanna kiss the reviewer’s toes, in one of those reviews that makes me wanna–as the Godfather of Soul James Brown might say–jump back and kiss m’self, I was called…
wait for it…
here it comes….
“a speech pathologist’s wet dream.”
You may now talk among yourselves.

06.22.07 PERMALINK | NO COMMENTS