Review - Book - secret city - by Jennifer Barone

Enter The Word Kitchen of Jennifer Barone

I remember the first time I felt that I really got her. Jennifer was the featured poet at the Dalva Poetry Reading. Instead of her usual repertoire of reading two or three poems before introducing the first poetry set at Club Deluxe, Jennifer read at length. Her sensational descriptions of “plump tomatoes, bread,/ and mushrooms”, “grilled Cuban corn/ with cayenne pepper” filled my mouth, then expanded my mind. Her food-language seemed an entire world-language.

Her new book, secret city, puts the food on the plate. It is a collection of 18 poems by Jennifer accompanied by 21 visual artworks by Edward Barone, the poet’s father. Nine poems were written in New York City, Jennifer’s home town, and nine were written in San Francisco since she moved there in fall, 2005. With this form, the book mirrors the poet’s life. The poems spread across horizontal pages in three columns; none of the jaded vertical for Jen. She would prefer that you roll gently through this book. It is not a problem. To get from east to west.

A saxophone plays sadly. Food smells drift through the air from hot cucine as you walk through the streets of endless midnight doorways, each inviting you in for a taste of something exotic.

i’ve told you my dreams
somehow you’ve slipped
under my guard
and will know where to find me
- we must never have a fight

Once you’ve entered the intimacy of her dialogue, you realize that her words will never be said aloud in conversation, and yet, all of these thoughts and feelings will be present.

i look at you across the table
and everything disappears
except for pigeons flocking
into our conversation
seeing your eyes
full of love and smiling
shaking your head at me
- leave it to you

Stepping away from her love poems written to the saxophone man, Jennifer puts the two cities on display as she sees them. One of the coolest poems is moving underground; an image of the hundreds of thousands that take the daily trip of public transport: subway, muni, metro, whatever. She gets down to “i am the fingerprints on poles”, she is “the heaviness that/ weighs our chests down”, she is “the child’s wild eyes/ smiling from his stroller”, she imagines “i am the window/ my head is against”.

In San Francisco the poems become more descriptive. I “see” the last poem as a visionary demand that the reader see what she sees.

those who pray for heaven
who seek the promised land
as if it were forever unattainable
i don’t envy you

looking over the bay
you’d see us
on the balcony
sharing wine on a Monday
- saving heaven for later

All of a sudden, the previous poems are not quiet descriptions - they are demands: stop, forget, look around. Forget time, forget where you’re going, and internalize this; there is a lot to see. Yr senses will thank you.



About this book:

Format: 44 pages, paperback
Size: 8½ X 5½
Run: 200
Price: ten bucks
My Favorite WordPlay: lusty burlesque girls/ wearing too much make-up/ frilly panties and fishnets full of tears -- coney island
Get It, GET IT: thewordparty.com

Review - Amiri Baraka - City Lights Bookstore at 7:pm 2/19/07

When I was twelve and recorded a Sonic the Hedgehog cartoon over the only existent video of my grandfather, I learned that 15 minutes can eliminate hours of work. Today, I made 3 hours of tiresome transportation fruitless by arriving 15 minutes later than I had initially planned for the Amiri Baraka reading at City Lights.


(Above: Some of the multitude turned away)

I told myself, arrive half an hour early at least, I told myself, I told myself. But no, I arrive at 6:46 and there I am already, a million of me, I’m seated inside, I’m crowded around the door, I’m arguing ridiculous things like that I’m a student and that I’m here for a class - I’m kicking myself for drinking at a nearby bar - I‘m asking if there‘s space left in the basement - I’m laughing alone in helpless frustration on the curb… And who would have guessed Poet Baraka would draw such a crowd? Me. When I read the announcement at citylights three weeks ago. And who’s that getting back on the bus? Oh.

But this is not what I do on this blog. I do not indulge the superfluous undulating of my life. I try to create something.

What does it mean when a poet has grown so great that he sells out? literally? not literarily. The Great Man’s 9/11 poem got him attacks from all sides as well as required the complete elimination of the position of Poet Laureate in the state of New Jersey. New Jersey State writes that “Baraka refused New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey's call for him to resign. When McGreevey attempted to fire Baraka, he found no provision in the law for removing a state poet laureate. Subsequently, on October 17, 2002, a bill was introduced to the New Jersey Senate that would eliminate the position of state poet laureate; it passed and became effective July 2, 2003.” Poet Baraka’s actual words were “NO, I WILL NOT APOLOGIZE, I WILL NOT RESIGN. In fact I will continue to do what I have appointed to do but still have not been paid to do." And get this, "Publicize and Popularize poetry and poets throughout this state." He should have said country. He achieved it. Perhaps this man is a loud dissident. But through the glass windows of the bookstore, he looked like Walt Whitman, he looked peaceful and proud. And, at 72, this man made me feel like I was at a Beatles’s concert - alright, a James Brown concert.


And, as far as the aforementioned question, I think the answer is, well, learn it again: The Early Bird Catches The Worm.