Christine Otten

The Last Poets

Translated from the Dutch by Jonathan Reeder

World Editions

Published in Great Britain in 2016 by World Editions Ltd., London

www.worldeditions.org

Copyright © Christine Otten, 2004

English translation copyright © Jonathan Reeder, 2016

Cover design Multitude

The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published as De laatste dichters in the Netherlands in 2004 by Atlas Contact, Amsterdam.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

isbn 978-94-6238-038-7

This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may

be made of the information contained herein.

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Dutch Foundation for Literature.

Distribution Europe (except the Netherlands and Belgium): Turnaround Publisher Services, London

Distribution the Netherlands and Belgium: cb, Culemborg, the Netherlands

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Phone: +31 (0)76 523 3533. Email: info@worldeditions.org

for my son Daniël

The Last Poets are

Jerome Huling / Omar Ben Hassen / Umar Bin Hassan

Felipe Luciano

Gylan Kain

David Nelson

Charles Davis / Abiodun Oyewole

Alafia Pudim / Jalal Nuriddin

Raymond Hurrey / Nilija Obabi

Suliaman El-Hadi

##

This was always, and remains

a foreign land. And we are

undoubtedly, the slaves.

There is some music, that shd come on now

With space for human drama, there shd be some memory

that leaves you smiling. That is, night and the way

Her lovely hand, extended. The Star, the star, all night

We loved it

Like ourselves.

THE TIME HAS COME

Autumn

Prologue

He remembered the exact day: November 11, 1979. It was a Thursday afternoon. He was in Ameja’s place, a swanky apartment on the eighth floor on Columbus Avenue. He looked outside. It was raining gently. He stood in the living room, watching the drops trickle slowly down the window, zigzagging their way over the glass. Outside, the streetlights were already on. He saw the trees in Central Park, the vibrant spectrum of yellow and green and red and rust-brown. The wispy, watery clouds up above and the pale orange-yellow sunlight trying to break through. Even now, twenty years later, he remembered every detail of that depressing view. As if everything stood still. The glossy reflection of his face in the windowpane. The lights of the cars and taxis down below, melting into one long glistening image, a fading flash of light that nestled into his memory. He had never seen New York like this before, the city as an abstract painting, frozen in his gaze. The city as a perfect reflection of his state of mind. He felt calm. His head was clear. He heard the soft hum of the furnace. It was as though he had spent his whole life working toward this moment. Everything he had been through up till now, all the violence, the commotion, the love affairs, the sex, the disappointment, the successes, drained from him and left him empty. That is how he felt: as though he was ready to fall, fall as deep as he could.

Ameja was out. She said she’d be late, that she had to go to Harlem for business and that he should wait for her. The burned, bitter smell of crack cocaine wafted into the living room. Zaid, a prominent Nation of Islam preacher, was in the kitchen. You could always find him at Ameja’s. ‘Come on, brother Umar, you gotta try this, it’s the next level,’ he had said, with that whispering, conspiratorial voice of his. ‘It’s better than sniffing, it’s heaven on earth.’ Of course, he never said this when Ameja was around. Ameja had forbidden him to smoke the stuff. She would give him as much white powder as he wanted, as long as he didn’t smoke it. ‘That’ll be the end,’ she said. ‘I’ll throw you out.’

He was clean that afternoon. He had shaved and showered and put on one of the white silk dress shirts that Ameja had bought him from her cousin on 125th St. Ameja bought everything for him. Brooks Brothers suits, a fedora, shoes, cocaine. And he gave her sex.

He recalled their first encounter, one night a few months back. It was the premiere of Suspenders. His first play to be staged. It was about a black and a white man stuck in an elevator in an office building on Wall Street. Larry Fishburne played the lead. There was an after-party and Larry had introduced him to Ameja. Ameja was tall and slender and her hair hung past her shoulders. He wondered how she got it to stay so smooth and glossy. Her skin was unblemished and chocolaty.

‘So you’re the famous poet,’ she said, and he heard the irony in her voice. As though she knew he hadn’t written a poem in years. He worked as a cook in a diner in SoHo, was married to Malika, and had three children. They lived in a small apartment in Clinton Hills in Brooklyn.

‘Good with words. I’ve got your records at home ... Haven’t played them for years.’ As she spoke she measured him up, eyeing him from head to toe. ‘Wasn’t your name Omar?’

He laughed. ‘Umar,’ he said. ‘Umar Bin Hassan.’

It was as though he escaped from his own life that night. The theater, the applause, the lights, the attention. It was so familiar, so gratifying. Brooklyn seemed light-years away.

‘I want to hear your beautiful voice in my ear,’ she whispered as she leaned over, offering him a glimpse of her breasts. They went to her apartment. They snorted and screwed until the sun came up.

He watched the clouds slowly dissipate above Central Park. Twilight colored the sky pink and purple. Only now did he really notice the street noise. The agitated honking of the cars, the wail of the sirens, the monotonous roar of the traffic. But the noises remained at a distance, reaching him in waves. He looked down below, saw umbrella-wielding pedestrians hurry along the sidewalk; they were almost like puppets scurrying into the subway. The asphalt glistened under the streetlamps. He saw the row of taxis waiting at a red light; they seemed to jostle like excited children. The longer he observed the tumult on the streets, the further away he felt himself drift. He had no idea what to expect, where he would go, what would happen to him after this afternoon. The only thing he could do was yield; every muscle in his body was relaxed. It was a relief to finally give in to the gnawing, hollow feeling in him, a dark, perplexing desire. As though something was waiting for him. As though he was holding something back. This was the real reason he was hardly ever home. A few weeks back he had taken Malika and the kids to Coney Island. It was a Sunday. An unusually fine day in October. They had picked up his eldest daughter Amina at Queenie’s and then went to the beach. It was sunny and warm. The light was white and misty, and from the boardwalk you could barely see where the water stopped and the sky began. The children went on the merry-go-round. They ate ice cream on the beach. He listened to the clear sound of their excited voices, saw how Amina fussed over the little ones. Amina had just turned eight. He looked out to sea, a thin, light-blue ribbon in the distance; he wanted to play with the children, had brought a ball and tennis rackets, but for one reason or another he couldn’t get close to them, as though he was observing them, and himself, from a distance. Malika didn’t lose sight of him for even a moment.

‘Talk to me, Umar,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘You know what I’m talking about. Those suits. The shoes. You can’t afford them. What’s up?’

‘Nothing, not a thing. A little windfall, that’s all.’

‘You can’t snow me with a bit of coke, you know.’

‘Is that what I’m trying to do?’

‘I don’t know.’ She looked the other way. He saw her disappointment. He felt like a traitor, but not because he was fooling around with Ameja. Ameja had nothing to do with it. Even when he had sex with her, when he let himself slide along with the warm flush of the cocaine and whispered gentle, sexy things in her ear, drove her crazy with his words and his tongue, even then it was as if he was watching a shadow of himself, an imitation Umar Bin Hassan.

Still, he went back to her apartment every afternoon. He took off his shoes and walked across the deep white wool carpeting that ran through every room. The heat was turned up. He switched on the TV and watched a game show or an old Western. He lay on the floor with a pillow. He forgot all the hustle and yelling and swearing in the diner, the pale fluorescent light by which he made salads, hamburgers, and fries, quick quick, the light that made his eyes sore, the depressing white bathroom tiles and the dirty plates stacked in the dishwashing sink. The hiss of hot oil on the grill. The heat of the subway. Sweat beaded up on his forehead and ran down his back. He always ran that last stretch, from the subway to 79th and Columbus, as fast as he could, as though the devil was nipping at his heels.

He heard a noise from the kitchen. He turned and saw Zaid stagger into the room, flop onto one of the leather sofas, prop his feet on the coffee table, and stare blankly at the enormous lighted aquarium opposite them. It was dark by now, and the aquarium shed a blue glow over the living room.

‘Ameja won’t be back for a while,’ Zaid mumbled.

‘Maybe.’

‘Poets and preachers have a lot in common, don’t you think?’ he laughed. His eyes were closed. A blissful smile played around his mouth. ‘Both looking for inspiration. Am I right?’

‘Get outta here, man. How do you do it? Are they crazy at the Nation? Haven’t they got you figured out yet?’

‘The first time it’s like coming, but, like, with your entire being. A sort of heightened, supernatural orgasm. No pussy even comes close.’

‘I know.’

‘You don’t know nothing. Come with me to the kitchen, Umar. What else are you doing here? You’re just like me. Too proud to just give in, but I see what’s smoldering in you, man. A little turn-on and a quickie isn’t enough for you. What you’re looking for, no woman can give you. Nobody can. Didn’t I say poets and priests have a lot in common?’

‘You’re bullshitting.’

‘You know that’s not true.’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Nothing, brother Umar. I just can’t sit here and watch you throw your life away. You belong in the Nation. You know you do. You’ve got something to say.’

‘Bullshit. I don’t belong anywhere. No muthafucka’s gonna tell me where I belong, you understand me? This is totally insane. Have you seen yourself lately?’

‘Come with me to the kitchen.’

‘She’ll throw me out.’

‘So what?’

‘Shut up, Zaid.’

‘Shhh ... ’ Zaid put his index finger over his lips and sank into the sofa. His head flopped back. From one second to the next he had fallen into a deep sleep.

Umar looked at the big orange and red fish in the aquarium. He heard the gentle gurgle of the water pump. A pleasantly restful sound. Zaid started to snore. His mouth hung open. He was as thin as a rake. The way he lay there ... As defenseless as an old man.

He went to the bathroom and took a piss. So many mirrors: he saw himself from all sides. The shiny white dress shirt that hung loosely over his trousers. His round head. His dick in his hand. He shut his eyes. Missed the rim of the toilet. He heard the splatter on the tile floor. If Ameja only knew. He zipped up his fly and wiped the floor with a towel, then threw the towel into a corner. He went back to the living room. Zaid was lying on his side. His knees bent, legs curled up. Umar stood there looking at him, as though watching over a child, waiting until he woke up. Zaid’s words had gotten under his skin, they reverberated in his head. He was like the devil, that guy. He’d been badgering him for weeks. Umar had laughed at Zaid’s reaction when Ameja read the reviews of Suspenders out loud to them both: ‘Last Poet Convincing As Playwright,’ the critic wrote. In a New York review!

‘You’re one of them, Umar,’ Zaid had jeered. ‘What’s your next move? Hollywood? Get outta here. You’re nothing more than a black mascot for those theater folks, you know that as well as I do.’

It had only taken a few lines of coke to make Umar’s euphoria over his success last the whole night. And the next morning he got up at six-thirty and took the A train to the diner. No one there read The New York Times.

Sometimes it felt like he was a prisoner of his own thoughts. He had received a letter from a professor at a university in Michigan who taught a class in poetry and the black nationalist movement in the ’60s. Wanted permission to include ‘Niggers are Scared of Revolution’ in a reader for his students. The poem was a classic, the man wrote, it exposed the heart of the problem with which blacks, black men, had been wrestling for years. Niggers are lovers. Niggers loved to hear Malcolm rap but they didn’t love Malcolm. Niggers love anything but themselves.

He didn’t write back. As long he wasn’t producing any new poems, he didn’t have the nerve to discuss his work. As though he didn’t deserve to. He could hardly bring himself to listen to music anymore. He had turned off the record player when Malika put on Kind of Blue by Miles one night. It hurt to hear those familiar sounds, the subtle twists and repetitions, the trumpet’s warm, sultry whisper, searching for the right tone. Miles was a strange guy, slippery, but his music cut straight to Umar’s soul. Behind every note a word was hidden, a mood, an atmosphere, but that night he didn’t see a thing, no images, no words; the music blinded and deafened him. He could barely even remember how he himself sounded. As though his poems no longer needed him. They led their own life, independent of him. He saw them: when he hurried through the busy Manhattan streets and saw all those anonymous faces pass by, the lights, the garish neon advertisements, the tall glistening towers, the panhandlers, the hustlers, the junkies, a whirlwind of words and images and sounds that made him wistful.

Zaid rolled onto his other side. Made clicking noises with his tongue.

‘Get up, man. She’ll be here soon.’ Umar gave him a shove in the back. ‘Ameja doesn’t want any hassle. And she definitely doesn’t want your filthy feet on her couch.’

Zaid laughed. He hoisted himself off the sofa and retreated to the kitchen.

But Umar knew he was kidding himself. He knew all along he’d start smoking that shit, sooner or later. He had no choice, really. It was just a question of waiting for the right moment.

So he went into the kitchen. The bright light there blinded him for a second.

‘Sit down,’ Zaid said. As though hypnotized, he stared at the flame of his lighter as it melted the crack in the spoon. ‘There’s the pipe.’

Umar picked up the small stone pipe that lay on the table. Zaid drizzled the bubbling mass into its bowl. ‘Quick,’ he said, ‘before it’s gone. You have to hold it in as long as you can.’

Umar inhaled, felt the bittersweet smoke burn in his throat, his lungs.

‘You feel it?’

Zaid’s voice echoed in his head. He closed his eyes. A warmth flowed through his body; he felt it bend him over backward. It was a gentle, liquid warmth. His cheeks flushed. He felt crackly vibrations in his head, as though he’d just woken up after a long, deep sleep. Everything was red. Red velvet. He wanted to lie down. Got up and walked to the sofa. He saw the fish glide through their viscous water. The bluish-yellow light of the aquarium. The light was clear and crisp and real. He lay down. His fingers tingled; his legs felt heavy and sluggish. The warmth embraced him, caressed him, kissed him. It was like falling into a memory.

‘This is only the beginning,’ he heard Zaid say in the distance.

He couldn’t speak. His yearning melted into the velvety storm that raged through his body. He smiled.

‘Everything’ll be fine, brother Umar,’ Zaid whispered. ‘Everything.’

##

‘A.M.’ (1990)

That sound ... What is that sound? So clean. So fluid. Emotions so hot in

the passing of Summer into Autumn. The magnificence of awakening to

something so rare ... so new. Images dreaming softly in slow dances that

wrap themselves tightly around our doubts.

I touch your face.

You touch mine. He is so tender with our needs.

So strong in our desire to be free. The definitions of his statement colors the

skyline. He was

that one last feeling of logic before the needle punctured the vein. He was

the music the morning after the resurrection of pain and prayers in the

twisted honor and slight applause of demons and folk heroes stabbing us

in the back.

He was a love Supreme.

He was a love Supreme.

East Orange, New Jersey, September 2001

Recollections of Grand Mixer DXT, Greenpoint Studio, Brooklyn, 1991

‘There was an abattoir next door to the studio. Every morning, really early, a truck full of chickens drove up, and when the tailgate opened you heard their screeching and wailing. “I don’t wanna go. I don’t wanna go.” Like they knew where they were headed. That high-pitched wail. It always woke me up. And the stench, weekends. On Sunday you smelled the bitter, rancid odor of chicken shit and clotted blood. But we got used to it, right? Once I met the guy who did the slaughtering. Huge guy. He had a sharp knife, and he chopped those chickens’ heads off, one by one, and hung them up on hooks. He was merciless. He didn’t say a prayer or anything. Just wham, head off, that’s it, next. Sometimes I miss the studio—don’t you, Umar? We were family: you, me, Anton the drummer, and Lane—remember Lane? Young guy. Wonder whatever happened to him. I had lost my house in Los Angeles to the earthquake. Bill Laswell said I could come live above his studio. How’d I know you’d be sleeping there too. Remember the Chinese place across the street? That was really good, the restaurant next door to McDonald’s. We didn’t have a kitchen. Only a sink and cold water. A shower on the third floor. And a huge wooden table where we sat talking at night. In the winter you had to let the water run or it’d freeze. Later I found an apartment in Harlem, but actually I’d have preferred to stay in Greenpoint. I rode my mountain bike from 132nd St. all the way back to Brooklyn. That studio had something. You know what I mean? You once said I wasted too much time on a beat. Came downstairs at night, muttering that I’d woken you up. But I was totally absorbed in that beat. The rest happened by itself, the sounds, the colors, the dialogues, the chord progressions. I converted it to music. We all had our own rituals. You too. Sometimes you’d vanish all of a sudden, and show up again three days later. Was Bill pissed! You remember? “Go upstairs, go sleep it off.” And then you’d start writing again ... ’

Akron, Ohio, 1958

Geronimo

‘Can you see it?’

Carla Wilson’s shrill voice echoed down Howard Street.

Jerome Huling did not budge. He was invisible. The night made him invisible. He thrust his fists deeper into his jacket pockets and saw how the red-to-yellow flicker of the neon lights reflected off Carla’s bare thighs. She sat on the low wall behind Roxy’s Café. The red turned her thighs gold, yellow turned them silver. With silver you could see her goose bumps. Tiny black dots on the glistening skin.

‘C’mere.’

He still didn’t realize Carla was talking to him. The longer he looked at her, the less himself he felt, his frozen feet in the canvas sneakers.

‘You deaf or what?’ She hopped off the wall where she had been sitting in vain for more than half an hour. It was too cold tonight. She tugged her black dress down over her thighs and pulled her thin leather jacket tighter. Then she blew a white cloud into the night.

‘It’s freezing,’ she said in a monotone.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ The words spontaneously escaped from Jerome’s thoughts.

‘So you do have a voice.’ Carla Wilson laughed. Her high cheekbones went up and her eyes became slits. ‘Come over here already. Or are you scared?’

Someone opened the door to Roxy’s. The gentle, smoky music—until now no more than a muffled background noise—blared down Howard Street. Stridently high saxophone notes, like a scream. An agitated drumbeat. The music descended on them like a warm vapor. Jerome and Carla caught each other’s eyes for a moment, then the door closed again.

‘You seen Charlie?’ Carla asked.

‘No,’ Jerome lied. A couple of hours earlier Charlie Brown had driven off in his white Pontiac, raising a hand to Jerome, winking. Two women, white women, were in the back seat.

‘The bastard,’ Carla hissed, as though she read Jerome’s mind. ‘He was supposed to pick me up. I could just as well have stayed home. What’s going on here? Doesn’t anybody want to fuck me?’

Jerome looked at Carla’s enormous thighs, packed into her tight-fitting, rippled dress. He felt bad for her, the way she stood there waiting, blowing on her hands to warm them up. But he liked Charlie. Charlie was the only pimp in the neighborhood who treated Jerome like a grown-up. Sometimes he took him for rides in his Pontiac and told him things no one else would say. That you shouldn’t have sex with white women. ‘Let me tell you something, son,’ he said. ‘You go to bed with a white woman, she’ll become your world. But respect her and stay out of her bed, and she’ll show you the world.’ Charlie Brown wore fancy white suits and silk shirts. His skin glistened with oil and his hair smelled like coconut. Even if Jerome didn’t send any johns his way, Charlie would sometimes give him a few dollars.

‘Maybe he’ll still come,’ Jerome said.

‘Who?’

‘Charlie.’

Carla guffawed. Her laugh sounded hollow and ugly in the darkness. ‘Who you kidding? How old are you anyway?’

‘Twelve,’ Jerome Huling lied.

‘Twelve,’ Carla Wilson said. ‘Twelve my ass.’

The music from Roxy’s hummed softly and invitingly down the street. It was the only bar that was still open.

‘Why don’t you go inside?’ Jerome asked.

‘In that stink hole?’

Jerome knew he should have gone home. He should have gone home hours ago. But as long as Roxy’s was open, he had the feeling something might happen. It always went like that. He would hang around long enough to muster up the courage to pick up his shoeshine kit and go inside. Roxy’s was a pirate’s den. There were men with an eye patch. Jerome once saw a woman without any hair or teeth; she staggered through the bar on matchstick legs. And once, in a corner, there was a man on the floor, bleeding; he had a knife sticking into his belly but nobody paid him any notice. The light in Roxy’s was red and smoky. It smelled like liquor and sweet perfume. The music was deafening. Roxy’s was like a magnet; he was drawn to it against his will. And never afraid. On the contrary: it was like he was invincible in Roxy’s. Like he was flying. And he always earned a few dollars. The later you went, the more work there was. Sometimes the men didn’t even seem to realize their shoes were being polished under the table.

‘What you standing there like that for?’

She had hoisted herself back up on the wall. She immediately looked prettier in the flickering neon lights.

‘Say, what’s your name?’

‘Geronimo,’ answered Jerome.

‘Geronimo? What kinda name’s that?’

‘Just Geronimo.’ If she was out to hassle him, she had another thing coming. He was part Indian. The owner of a bar on Exchange Street had given him that name. At first those hillbillies in the bar had just cursed him out: ‘You ain’t coming in here, nigger.’ They spat at him and hit him, but he kept on going there, doing his work. And one night the owner took him aside and asked his name. ‘Your name’s not Jerome,’ he said. ‘You’re a black Indian. From now on you’re Geronimo.’ Carla was the first person he told his new name to.

‘I’m going in,’ Jerome said.

‘C’mere now,’ Carla said. She sounded friendly for the first time, almost warm.

His hands in his pockets, Jerome sauntered over to her. He looked at the lights and their reflection on Carla’s skin. Red, yellow, red, yellow, he said to himself to the rhythm of the neon light. Red, yellow, red, yellow.

‘Closer,’ Carla whispered.

Red, yellow, red, yellow.

She hiked up her dress and spread her legs.

Jerome saw how the neon light made the enormous patch of hair glisten.

‘Feel it,’ Carla said. She took his hand and moved it to her crotch. The hairs there felt wiry and hard and warm. Red, yellow, red, yellow, red, yellow. She shoved him down, onto his knees, and pushed his head between her blue-black thighs. He gagged, smelling a pungent, rancid odor that reminded him of fish. He felt her strong hands on his neck, pulling him closer. ‘Go on,’ she panted. Go on what? He saw thick, swollen lips, wrinkled pieces of purple skin and flesh. ‘Mouth open,’ she commanded. He opened his mouth, his tongue touched those lips, they were wet and slimy and hot. He tasted the bitter sizzling smell, salty and soft in his mouth. From this close, it wasn’t as bad.

Carla arched her back and stretched her body, pushed her groin deeper into Jerome’s face, clamping his head between her thighs. He could hardly breathe. All he saw was blackness. ‘Higher,’ he heard her say, ‘higher.’ His tongue glided between her lips, from top to bottom, from bottom to top. And again. He felt the blood pound in his temples. His head was empty. His body was on fire. He swallowed her slime, kept on licking. Carla’s thighs began to quiver. He pulled his head back and looked up. She smiled at him and shoved him backward. He fell on his ass.

‘That’s enough,’ she said.

Jerome tried to stand up, but was so lightheaded he was afraid he’d fall right back over. The bright flashing lights hurt his eyes.

Carla hopped off the low wall and pulled her dress back down. She stuck out her hand. ‘You okay?’ she asked.

He nodded and stood up. His throat was shut tight; he couldn’t make a sound. He walked over to his kit and picked it up.

‘You get yourself home now, Geronimo,’ Carla said.

‘Geronimo,’ it echoed in his head. His head was full of her smell and her taste. He took a deep breath, felt the crisp, cold night air burn in his lungs.

‘And you don’t have to tell nobody,’ she said.

Nobody, he said to himself. He started walking, passing the garbage cans and the half-rotten wooden chairs that stood in front of Roxy’s year-round as he left the parking lot. The music accompanied him. The sultry, songlike sound of the saxophone. The muted thud of the bass rhythms. He picked up his pace. He was as light as a feather. He broke into a run. He saw the moon hanging low over Howard Street, coloring the sky silvery and blue. The moon followed him, ran along with him. He ran as hard as he could, and did not look back once.