A TIME Magazine Best Paperback of 2017 One of Oprah Magazine's "Ten Best Books of 2017"
"This singular poetry collection is a dynamic meditation on the experience of, and societal narratives surrounding, contemporary black womanhood. . . . These exquisite poems defy categorization." —The New Yorker
The only thing more beautiful than Beyoncé is God, and God is a black woman sipping rosé and drawing a lavender bath, texting her mom, belly-laughing in the therapist’s office, feeling unloved, being on display, daring to survive. Morgan Parker stands at the intersections of vulnerability and performance, of desire and disgust, of tragedy and excellence. Unrelentingly feminist, tender, ruthless, and sequined, these poems are an altar to the complexities of black American womanhood in an age of non-indictments and deja vu, and a time of wars over bodies and power. These poems celebrate and mourn. They are a chorus chanting: You’re gonna give us the love we need.
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There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyonce
A TIME Magazine Best Paperback of 2017 One of Oprah Magazine's "Ten Best Books of 2017"
"This singular poetry collection is a dynamic meditation on the experience of, and societal narratives surrounding, contemporary black womanhood. . . . These exquisite poems defy categorization." —The New Yorker
The only thing more beautiful than Beyoncé is God, and God is a black woman sipping rosé and drawing a lavender bath, texting her mom, belly-laughing in the therapist’s office, feeling unloved, being on display, daring to survive. Morgan Parker stands at the intersections of vulnerability and performance, of desire and disgust, of tragedy and excellence. Unrelentingly feminist, tender, ruthless, and sequined, these poems are an altar to the complexities of black American womanhood in an age of non-indictments and deja vu, and a time of wars over bodies and power. These poems celebrate and mourn. They are a chorus chanting: You’re gonna give us the love we need.
A TIME Magazine Best Paperback of 2017 One of Oprah Magazine's "Ten Best Books of 2017"
"This singular poetry collection is a dynamic meditation on the experience of, and societal narratives surrounding, contemporary black womanhood. . . . These exquisite poems defy categorization." —The New Yorker
The only thing more beautiful than Beyoncé is God, and God is a black woman sipping rosé and drawing a lavender bath, texting her mom, belly-laughing in the therapist’s office, feeling unloved, being on display, daring to survive. Morgan Parker stands at the intersections of vulnerability and performance, of desire and disgust, of tragedy and excellence. Unrelentingly feminist, tender, ruthless, and sequined, these poems are an altar to the complexities of black American womanhood in an age of non-indictments and deja vu, and a time of wars over bodies and power. These poems celebrate and mourn. They are a chorus chanting: You’re gonna give us the love we need.
Morgan Parker is a poet, essayist, and novelist. She is the author of the young adult novel Who Put This Song On?; and the poetry collections Other People’s Comfort Keeps Me Up At Night, and Magical Negro, which won the 2019 National Book Critics Circle Award. Parker’s debut book of nonfiction is forthcoming from One World. She is the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship, winner of a Pushcart Prize, and has been hailed by The New York Times as “a dynamic craftsperson” of “considerable consequence to American poetry.”
I am free with the following conditions. Give it up gimme gimme. Okay so I'm Black in America right and I walk into a bar. I drink a lot of wine and kiss a Black man on his beard. I do whatever I want because I could die any minute. I don't mean YOLO I mean they are hunting me. I know my pussy is real good because they said so. I say to my friend I am broke as a joke. I am Starvin' Like Marvin Gaye. I'm so hungry I could get it on. There's far too many of me dying. The present is not so different. Everybody looks like everybody I worked with. Everybody looks like everybody I've kissed. Men champion men and animals. Everybody thinks I'm going to die. At the museum I tell the school group about Black art. I tell them the word contemporary. I have a nose ring I forget about. I have a brother and he is also Black. I am a little modern to the fault. I say this painting is contemporary like you and me. They ask me about slavery. They say Martin Luther King. At school they learned that Black people happened. The present is not so different. I'm looking into their Black faces. They do not understand that they exist. I'm Black in America and I walk into a bar and drink a lot of wine, kiss a white man on his beard. There is no indictment. I could die any minute of depression. I just want to have sex most of the time. I just want my student loans to disappear. I just want to understand my savings account. What is happening to my five dollar one cent. I am free with the following conditions. What is happening to my brother. What if I do something wrong. My blood is so hot and wet right now. I know they want it. I do everything right just incase. I don't want to give away my money but here I am. It's so stupid I have to say here I am. They like to be on top. I am being set up. I am a tree and some fruits are good and some are bad.
The President Has Never Said the Word Black
To the extent that one begins to wonder if he is broken.
It is not so difficult to open teeth and brass taxes.
The president is all like five on the bleep hand side.
The president be like we lost a young boy today.
The pursuit of happiness is guaranteed for all fellow Americans.
He is nobody special like us. He says brothers and sisters.
What kind of bodies are moveable and feasts. What color are visions.
When he opens his mouth a chameleon is inside, starving.
Hottentot Venus
I wish my pussy could live in a different shape and get some goddamn respect. Should I thank you? Business is booming and I am not loved the way I want to be. I am an elastic winter: sympathy and shock, addictive decoration. In the sunlight my captors drink African hibiscus. They tell me I look regal bearing fruit. I am technically nothing human. I will never be a woman. Somewhere in my memory, I was held by a man who said I deserved it. Now I understand. No one worries about me because I am getting paid. I am here to show you who you are, to cradle your large skulls and remind you you are perfect. Mother America, unleash your sons. Everything beautiful, you own.
Another Another Autumn in New York
When I drink anything out of a martini glass I feel untouched by professional and sexual rejection. I am a dreamer with empty hands and I like the chill. I will not be attending the party tonight, because I am microwaving multiple Lean Cuisines and watching Wife Swap, which is designed to get back at fathers, as westernized media is often wont to do. I don't know when I got so punk rock but when I catch myself in the mirror I feel stronger. So when at five in the afternoon something on my TV says time is not on your side I don't give any shits at all. Instead I smoke a joint like I'm a teenager and eat a whole box of cupcakes. Stepping on leaves I get first-night thrill. Confuse the meanings of castle and slum, exotic and erotic. I bless the dark, tuck myself into a canyon of steel. I breathe dried honeysuckle and hope. I live somewhere imaginary.
Poem on Beyoncé's Birthday
Drinking cough syrup from a glass shaped like your body I wish was mine but as dark As something in my mind telling me I'm not woman enough for these days Colored with reddish loathing Which feels, to me, more significant than sun My existence keeps going Ripple in other people's mouths Pools of privilege and worship I want, I keep thinking I am exclusively post-everything Animals licking my chin, new leaves stretching From a palm plant like a man's greedy arms Today your open eyes are two fresh buds Anything could be waiting.
Lush Life
The most beautiful hearse I have ever seen is parked in front of my stoop Perched hands folded for six to eight weeks twinkling like a siren a new idea of love
Trees are planted but don't exist yet They are leaning non-existent into us A trough of hearts meets me in the anxious sun I could rot here
Something like the holy spirit pours you over bruised ice There isn't anything more to say than holy Beautiful men never looking upon me
I take music self-stirred and sleep alone curve into the morning like an almond My shoulder slush as romantics You wash up on a barstool smooth heartache black sand
Beyoncé On The Line for Gaga
Girl you know you ain't that busy. Without meyou're just two ears stuffed with glitter. Spoken gunyour name baby's first words when she enters swag up covered in gunmetal spandex, cigarettes for eyes. Say my name, louder come into these hips and live. Let platform heels tightrope curves, make Jiggaman jealous. He runs the streets I pour into them, weave first fierce nymph of Texas holy in black. You feel me? This booty is smooth running water. I shake too thick for love, push records like dimes, rep the hustle slick as legs. I know you like that. I carry the hood up in this bling. Soft brown fingers got rocks for days. Lips glossed opening for a special purpose. You say Tell 'em B I open my legs, throw my shades on like, Divas gettin money. Hard as the boys. Give me all your little monsters and I will burn them up. Give me your hand and I will let you back this up. Tonight I make a name for you.
We Don't Know When We Were Opened (Or, The Origin of the Universe)
after Mickalene Thomas
A sip of liquor from a creek. Saturday syndicated Good Times, bare legs, colors draped like an afterthought. We bright enough to blind you. Dear anyone, dear high heel metronome, white noise, hush us shhhhh, hush us. We're artisanal crafts, rare gems, bed of leafy bush you call us superfood. Jeweled lips, we're rich We're everyone. We have ideas and vaginas, history and clothes and a mother. Portrait-ready American Blues. Palm trees and back issues of Jet, pink lotion, gin on ice, zebras, fig lipstick. One day we learned to migrate. One day we studied Mamma making her face. Bright new brown, scent of Nana and cinnamon. Shadows of husbands and vineyards, records curated to our allure, incense, unconcern. Champagne is how the Xanax goes down, royal blue reigning. We're begging anyone not to forget we're turned on with control. We better homes and gardens. We real grown. We garden of soiled panties. We low hum of satisfaction. We is is is is is is is is touch, touch, shine, a little taste. You're gonna give us the love we need.
My Vinyl Weighs a Ton
Sit down shut up slip me out of my sleeve. I have come from the grasses of California.
Twenty years of the dark I carry. The sun bends its back over Struggle City.
It hits me first thing: I've never been cool. I am driving with glass eyes and lead feet.
I jetpack into the heaviness alone. My bare face hanging out all over the kitchen counter.
What's largest is the ego, half-animal growing near mint. I'm a rare EP strutting into the brown morning.
T-shirts are a theme. The neighborhood watches. Lawn chairs tumble into liquor stores alone.
The good old urban sprawl at half-volume. It is literally just another day.
All my friends are changing religions and getting laid. I have been too patient.
It's just one long slumber party in here. It seems impossible that Mom will ever arrive, car running, to take me home.
Beyoncé is Sorry for What She Won't Feel
The Capital's so icy, I see my perfect breath. It looks like a body on its knees. Most days I strut my figure on lock. A Nation of Weaves assembles at my Jimmy Choos, gazes into green light and falls asleep. First Lady of desire, I pant for our future. Like America and wine, I am all legs. A sheepskin bleached and dyed, left in the sun. Dear Sunday you are a rash like tresses falling to shoulders, pink highlights humming the sky like a tease. How do you feel in moonrise, the stomach-growl of life slowly closing? Do you wonder about escape, the blank, quiet frontier? I mouth Free and Home into a crowd but they only hear gold extensions. I listen for prophecies from my daughter's sticky mouth. While I pick her hair, she cries. I say, Never give them what they want, when they want it.
Afro
I'm hiding secrets and weapons in there: buttermilk pancake cardboard, boxes of purple juice, a magic word our Auntie Angela spoke into her fist & released into hot black evening like gunpowder or a Kool, 40 yards of cheap wax prints, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, a Zulu folktale warning against hunters drunk on Polo shirts and Jägermeister, blueprints for building ergonomically perfect dancers & athletes, the chords to what would have been Michael's next song, a mule stuffed with diamonds & gold, Miss Holiday's vocal chords, the jokes Dave Chapelle's been crafting off-the-grid, sex & brown liquor intended for distribution at Sunday Schools in white suburbs, or in other words exactly what a white glove might expect to find taped to my leg & swallowed down my gullet & locked in my trunk & fogging my dirty mind & glowing like treasure in my autopsy
These Are Dangerous Times, Man
Do you know what I would do with the glory of everyone? I would set it on my tongue. I've been meaning to sing this against chamomile hissing up from the grates. Not because it is dark but because of how I interpret the rules. While tree trunks grow into their pleats, I continue to respect unwritten codes. The world would crumble without my unwavering sacrifice. I try to write a text message to describe all my feelings but the emoticon hands are all white. White Whine. White flowers in a river. Some plantation stuck in my teeth like a seed. I think the phone is racist. The phone doesn't care about black people. The phone is the nation that loves the phone. Otherwise my feelings are unable to be expressed. A white thumb pointed down. You are everything good. I suck color out of the night and then your finger bones. We become a beautiful collection of knots trembling on the floor. I need to know what it feels like to be softened. Tender filet on a fresh wood block. Small, warm body in a field, un-itching. Our bodies never synchronized enough.
Rebirth of Slick
& sashayed & solar I'm a moodless seedling on the day Jay Z was born & Fred Hampton was killed
Watching TV and thinking "White people are crazy" Watching YouTube and thinking "Kanye West is crazy" Looking in the mirror
Everything crazy is the best It's what I learned from Aunties & empty bottles after midnight The birth of a bull shitter in dark lipstick & big dreams
It's easy to be ravishing: don't think I am feeling smooth and twirl my wrist as such Flock to me I ain't scared My bed is a cross between dancehall & fruit field Everyone is on the list plus infinity
I was born this way: unsatisfied My color is a bridge with no other side In a second life my voice is a drum kit Reigning over green hills like weather I am king & anthem I know how to relax
RoboBeyoncé
Charging in the darkroom while you sleep I am touch and go I flicker and get turned on Exterior shell, interior disco I like my liver steeled as a gun, my wires unbuttoned to you The reason I was built is to outlast some terribly feminine sickness that is delivered to the blood through kale salad and pity and men with straight-haired girlfriends The future's a skirt of expectation to mourn This way, hard-cased you can put your eyes on me It's less about obedience than silvery lipstick stains It's mostly about machine tits Artificially I'm interested Virtually I'm drunk The future's a girlish helmet with circuits that need doctors In the future our bodies can't I dare you Tell me apart from other girls Nothing aches in here It's a quiet, calculated shame
Delicate and Jumpy
Turns out I feel my body more than I should. My eyes dart
like a small animal. I'm a museum of necklines and cloudscapes, a heaven
diving into the wrong hard mountain. Soon a beer-colored sky will sneak
up behind the fence. I toss my hair to the street without permission.
A couple in matching peacoats smokes electronic cigarettes across the platform.
I am a tiny robot like them but there is no one to love my robo-heart.
On the last day of the year I enter a scalding tub and think you away.
It is too cold and too quiet for me to sign language the sky.
Right now six people are in outer space, and you are growing smaller in my mind.
I just want to have a heart for this, to be a shaved dog, begging at your heels.
Freaky Friday Starring Beyoncé and Lady Gaga
for example I'd miss my booty in your butt would hate to reach back and find history borrowed not branded would miss my glitz in your glam my rhythm in your rock you'd take me as a cold black cape while I relax into your fishnets the secret is I'm a body for anyone to fill in you I light a candle for you which is me slip a flower into our hair listen to our body yours and mine its sniveling crawl down the block its beat and I in your short strut take comfort in good white reason who'd want enter this whose breasts as heavy to touch whose vogue so viewed and blocked we'd kill for solace bodiced to despair I'd smear black lipstick on your thin lips try to forget I ever belonged in you I'd see easier and you would hold my body upright gut the throat find out what comes up you'd see I'm just a slab of something
ALL THEY WANT IS MY MONEY MY PUSSY MY BLOOD, The President Has Never Said the Word Black, Hottentot Venus, Another Another Autumn in New York, Poem on Beyoncé's Birthday, Lush Life, Beyoncé on the Line for Gaga, We Don't Know When We Were Opened (Or, The Origin of the Universe), My Vinyl Weighs a Ton, Beyoncé is Sorry for What She Won't Feel, Afro, These Are Dangerous Times, Man, Rebirth of Slick, RoboBeyoncé, Delicate and Jumpy, Freaky Friday Starring Beyoncé and Lady Gaga, 13 Ways of Looking at a Black Girl, The Book of Negroes, The Gospel According to Her, Black Woman With Chicken, The Gospel of Jesus's Wife, White Beyoncé, The President's Wife, Welcome to the Jungle, Beyoncé, Touring in Asia, Breaks Down in a White Tee, What Beyoncé Won't Say on a Shrink's Couch, Ain't Misbehavin', Untitled While Listening to Drake, Beyoncé in Third Person, Heaven Be a Xanax, Beyoncé Celebrates Black History Month, Earth Wind & Fire Reunion Tour 2013, It's Getting Hot In Here So Take Off All Your Clothes, Take a Walk on the Wild Side, The Book of Revelation, 99 Problems, Slouching Toward Beyoncé, Let Me Handle My Business, Damn, Beyoncé Prepares a Will, Please Wait (Or, There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé), Funeral for the Black Dog, So What,
Poetry—real poetry, the sort that speaks to the human condition and moves you to tears, to applause, to sudden epiphanies alone in your room at night—is powerful stuff. A great shame of the modern anti-intellectual zeitgeist is the marginalization of poetry; the more people who experience the form, the better off the world will be. The […]