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Cruel Futures: City Lights Spotlight No. 17
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- Product Details
- About the Author
- Read an Excerpt
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Praise for Cruel Futures:
"Giménez Smith seeks release from the pressures of societal expectations in this collection of brief yet powerful poems. … Giménez Smith’s crisp lyrics and imagery highlight ever-present threats to female personhood and autonomy."—Publishers Weekly
"Cruel Futures is one of those rare books, rare pieces of art, that manages to be extremely intimate, vulnerable and close while also doing a kind of searing cultural critique. The poems can be tender or ironic, and sometimes a blending of the two, which is not easy."—Ross Gay
"In the body, through the lyric, and twitching with every sense of the word 'nerve,' this book sings a mongrel nation into and across its cruel futures. Like Neruda in his Plenos Poderes/Full Powers, Giménez Smith has all the mastery she needs to cast a cold eye on her positioning, and ours. In this way Cruel Futures is an autobiography that won't stay in its genre or premise, caring less to author a self than to follow turns of magic in words that might soothe our 'collisions with the living.'"—Farid Matuk
"Declamatory anthems to no nation, these songs stride as they deal and wheel with skin and kin: history, catastrophe, the body, love. 'Upturned and defiant, all types of shade, no outskirt, / vital like a saint,' the poems in Cruel Futures shimmer with Giménez Smith’s lyric attention: full of grit, sharp and knowing."—Hoa Nguyen
ISBN-13: 9780872867581
Media Type: Paperback
Publisher: City Lights Books
Publication Date: 03-27-2018
Pages: 88
Product Dimensions: 5.40(w) x 6.80(h) x 0.40(d)
Series: City Lights Spotlight
Carmen Giménez Smith received a BA in English at San Jose State University and an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop. She is the author of four poetry collections, including Milk and Filth, a finalist for the 2013 National Book Critics Circle Award in poetry. She was awarded an American Book Award for her memoir Bring Down the Little Birds (2010) and the Juniper Prize for Poetry for Goodbye, Flicker (2012). She also co-edited Angels of the Americlypse: New Latin@ Writing (2014), an anthology of contemporary Latinx writing. Be Recorder will be published by Graywolf Press in 2019. She now serves on the planning committee for CantoMundo and on the board of RASA, which sponsors the Thinking Its Presence conference on race and art. She serves as the publisher of Noemi Press. She is a professor of creative writing at Virginia Tech and the poetry editor for The Nation.
5 poems from Cruel Futures DEFAULT MESSAGE Read an Excerpt
I have thirty seconds to convince you
that when I'm not home, my verve is still
online or if I'm sleeping when you call,
sheep are grazing on yesterday's melodrama.
Does anybody know what the burning umbrella
really meant? Forget it. Tell me what you need.
Leave me a map. Leave me your net worth
for reference. Better yet, leave me more than you
ever planned. Frankly, I'm anxious your message
will be a series of blurs, that you'll garble
your confession, so I retract every last gesture
for your same retraction. The phone is in
the kitchen, but I've lost my way.
VOW RENEWAL
I was afraid for our little nuclear family
since we is a delicate tentacled organism
stretching a thousand light years, a vortex,
an oil spill titanic and also the bobbing
four-person submarine navigating it.
Once I feared you'd eat through me
with your eyes's wet mouth, so I held
you at arm's length. My anxiety bolstered
your will, and something like that is
this marriage. Anger in women is not
a negative emotion you said when I was
trying to implode against the flint of your
body. My cock got hard when you said that.
I'd been waiting for you since I was primordial.
Here's to another 100 years, my love, and here's
to our upload onto the same big network. We
becomes a poly-symbiotic life form that eludes
eternity and also occupies self with the stink
we make of our sloped marital bed.
RAVERS HAVING BABIES
I've tried to make my babies fall in love with
the surrealists, but they only want the acid pastels
of the graphic age. I gather their utterances
in my viscous cloud and echo them back in art
because they're brilliant about tomorrow.
I'm old to them and this will be true until
they are this old too, remembering how their mother
had been relatively young and human or maybe
they do not think of my mortality at all. We're not there yet.
We're at the place where I'm a threat because of everyone
suddenly seeing them with such acuity, their status
perpetually in flux. Each depiction and turn of a phrase
is under scrutiny and the hopelessness of correction....
Now I puzzle, I perplex, I embarrass. Then they're the world
seeing me—how much I've always hated inspection myself—
which amplifies their power but also those selves of theirs that
are starting to feel set, inescapable. Some nights,
left alone in their mind, dreams complicating their mortality,
the children wander into my bed for the harbor in my body.
I inhale them in old school want, and recall a more desperate
version of myself in love. That woman was all in, all hunger,
all vision of unity, and all this life later, through therapy and letting go
and also doing some broken things, that woman figured out
she only wanted the long devotion of family. Not to replicate
childhood, but to replace it. Oh, terrible childhood, what tatters
you made of me. In seeking love, I thought little of outcome,
only the reaping I would do. The open windows closed.
The solutions. Instead: disparate wants and strangers
connected by blood. Both times I was pregnant I worried about
becoming full of them too fast, or that they would smother me
with want when in fact, it had been me, insinuating my cells into them.
There's uncanniness in their adolescence because mine
is there floating between us. I was a frantic and edgy teen.
I constructed so many urgencies. I had a fantasy of being left alone
in the world only to set it right. My other devotion is the world,
who demands I tell it. Song keeps me fixed to the page. At the end
of my second pregnancy, I went into what they called false
labor, exploding supernova of urgency that became my only
type of consciousness, masochist psychonaut,
but it wasn't time, not for two weeks, though I felt my child
becoming herself, insistent storm, someone like the now-girl
in the room down the hall, and then I felt it when it would
really happen, which was different than before, more
of an awareness of a legitimate beginning to labor,
to the relationship we would have, really, and there was too, an ending
I felt there because life would always be linked to death.
That was the last time I was certain must be why I'm recalling it,
certain of what I needed to do to retain them. That must have been
what love ended up being in the long run in order for me to use it.
While my babies sleep I'm furled into a ball softened
by sugar and weed, trying to solve problems. I lay
in dread until morning when they tarry over TV
and time shortens our telemeres without mercy.
They're just figuring out they pinned their fortunes
to someone who's a little messy, a little loud.
They're coming to terms with the terms.
I'll die before identifying a single birdsong in my life,
but ink drips music into my blood.
The imaginary is marvel. A minute inverts my babies
away from me. So much to do, so little skin for transformation.
BEASTS
My siblings and I archive the blanks in my mother's memory,
diagnose her in text messages. And so it begins, I write although
her disease had no true beginning, only a gradual peeling away
until she was left a live wire of disquiet. We frame her illness
as a conceptual resistance—She thinks, yet she is an other—
to make sense of the alteration. She forgot my brother's cancer,
for example, and her shock, which registered as surprise,
was the reaction to any story we told her, an apogee of sublimity
over and over. Once on a walk she told us she thought
she was getting better. Exhausted, we told her she was incurable,
a child's revenge. The flash of sorrow was tempered only
by her forgetting and new talk of a remedy,
and we continued with the fiction because darker dwindling
awaits us like rage, suspicion, delusion, estrangement.
I had once told myself a different story about us.
In it she was a living marble goddess in my house
watching over my children and me. So what a bitter fruit
for us to share, our hands sinking into its fetid bruise,
the harsh flavor stretched over all our days, coloring them grey,
infesting them with the beasts that disappeared her,
beasts that hid her mail in shoeboxes under her bed,
bills unpaid for months, boxes to their brims. The lesson:
memory, which once seemed impermeable, had always been
a muslin, spilling the self out like water, so that one became
a new species of naïf and martyr. And us, we're made a cabal
of medieval scholars speculating how many splinters of light
make up her diminishing core, how much we might harvest before
she disappears. This is the new love: her children making an inventory
of her failing body to then divide into pieces we can manage—
her shame our reward, and I'll speak for the three of us:
we would have liked her to relish in the boons that never came,
our own failures amplified by her ephemeral fading quality.
DEAR MEDUSA
What was it like to be left with only a stone husband,
stone postman, stone apprentice? Was it loneliness?
A marvel? You had enormous power, which people
called a curse, but you were one of the first witches.
See, I feel penetrated, and I want to survive my story.
I want to be both vegan and Teflon, Ms. Medusa.
Despite being cursed, weren't your days the wind—
lifting swirls of dust around your feet like an omen-cat?
Your deflection cushioned you with a thousand husks.
I want no window into me, not even pores. I write you
because they want to bury my feet deep into the earth
to be just grass, just earth, like that first myth that left us
in the morass. Your vilification seems like freedom.
Teach me about trapping men inside their gazes for eternity.
You should write volumes for all of us mortals who want
even just the allegory of power. We find ourselves
constrained and debased and throttled. We whittle
ourselves down into bony angelfaces with paint.
We drain ourselves into toilets. Too much, too much.
I'll end by thanking you for your gift to pre-feminism.
You are truly one of my heroes. In praise of your impiety
and atrocity masked by masks, and in praise of your undulance,
the hiss and bite of your brink, I write as your loyal
and devoted disciple. Amen, hallelujah, and so on.
"Carmen Giménez Smith is one of the most productive Latinas in American literature, and her mission is ensuring that innovative poetry connects with varied audiences. . . . Her verse has been widely celebrated for its lyrical and political perspectives on femininity and feminism, and for the way it reinvigorates poetic language with the use of such devices as the fragment, associative meaning and elliptical storytelling."—Rigoberto Gonzalez, NBC News What People are Saying About This
From the Publisher
"In her 'Poetics of Disobedience' Alice Notley says there is 'probably nothing more disobedient than being a comic poet, since no one's ever sure if that's good enough.' And I can't think of any poet better than Giménez Smith to take up this challenge. She is riotous, which is to say fierce—full of myth and truth telling and delight."—T.C. Tolbert, PEN America
"In Milk and Filth , Carmen Giménez Smith's powerful fourth book of poetry, the poet takes on feminism in ways both historical and personal, all through a lens well aware of both the contemporary landscape and the women who struggled before us. A 2014 National Book Critics Circle Award nominee, Milk and Filth is astonishing for the beauty of its language and the ferocity of its unflinching vision."—Lynn Melnick, Boston Review