Mississippi Suite

1.
I have crossed over some
where I can buy a cross
road map   For mummified worlds with
in words       I invent

This
river wants me to jine a crap
game in its hind pocket
books of Clinton    Wants me
to make my pallet in still
waters of its chilly arms     Wants me

This
river reminds me of my grand
father’s groan    My grand
mother’s   “Do Lords Do Lord    Do
remember mes”    This place offers
the ambiguity of a second
handed prayer in a foreign
legionnaire’s boot
prints on a baby’s skull

Davenport
opens its arms    Opens my wounds
with memory   The river is
its voice


2.
Here   The blues
singer exits out
side his mother’s arm
length of blessings

Here    A glossary of sand
speaks   From skeletal remains of Robert
Johnson’s amalgam of groans   Here
silence is my monologue

This
is no asylum there
fore I cry on this page
short days  My daddy had
for joy    He stole

Here   Naked silhouettes of folded hand
jive     On vacation in winds of Eddie
King’s guitar   Pleads for
rain


3.
She possesses much pain
from hide-ways inside
There
is no need ever for her
to borrow some
body else’s cries
to feed her lyrics   There
are rectangles   Triangles  And
some geometric figures on her soul

She
riffs spirits from crushed
skulls   From names
inherited   From dispossession
These
recycled scars are Bessie’s empty
gin bottles of loss   In her there is no Big
House morals   In her is a synthesis of hill
side myth   With collard
greetings    From corn pone folks
Blues impulses rise from   Under
neath her skin   Speaking for rainy
days and nights she swallows
to get sleep

She steps in
to two by fours of lonely
night/absences of promises
a house of blues/erected
from the stuff of one’s breathing in lone
some rooms/Steps into feelings
with a strut/all earned with tear
drops falling down ecstatic wang
dang doodles   Sketching by
gone dangers floors/where some
body gets next to some
body’s sweet thang

She
is a passenger
on journey/she improvises
with her losses


4.
Here.
The good
byes are recycled as out
stretched alms

A metamorphosis of canine
squeals from Ogun’s
thrift shop of blood
lines/for red beans and rice
fields/where rhythmic vocabularies
ascend in voices    Longing
affluence of imagination

Rhythm is soloist
Rhythm is the land
mark declension of spirit
where lyric is a sub
let apartment in wild arias
conjured/Accordion to
rebellions in Chaz’s wash
boarders’/saturated murmurs of
yes I can/I can can can
move you


5.
A blues party
line from birth of Shango
till/she takes the A
Train whistle
stop as the back
ground music
for her testimony

Disguises/torn pages of a hymnal
from/the pulpit of her gestures   She
distills a cliché with a half
cry-me-a-river-of-muddy-tears/head
shake

Metamorphosis of Ogun’s
thrift shop of blood
lines/for the red
island/where I locate
my biography in gris
gris hand
cuffs of new moon
shine

Zydeco is party
music/for land
scapes of the imagination
Steel trees/spank
against neon dance
floors/of that  old
time religion


6.
I am alone   And today is the birth
day of my country   I hope bloody
tears do
not rain from dreams of
my people   I hope bloody
tears do
not rain


7.
A blue party
line with/history

Dangles
from Denise’s mileage
from some pulpit
where pews reel and
rock in vocal  coronations of
simple good
times and pain    Where too much back
street walking      is a pilgrimage

Blues/America’s only
independence day or night
time


8.
I know
I was going to play
blues

I longed/history on the other
side/of another’s skin

Touch

Needs no pass
ports or visa
cards/to cross in
to feeling

I know
I was going to play
blues

The rail
road tracks/are my guardian
angels/ I dialogue
with wheels/grinding
a journey from tractors and
dreams/I pack on cars

When/I carry my life every
where/I go
to sing its wing’s
span/over shadows of
troubles/I feel

I know
I was going to play
blues/I am hawk
eye/worried    I know
I am going
to play

blues


9.
Some other/o
men/got  my name
and the blues
got me   This autobiography of
sickness/I bear
as a triumphal/memory
that Robert Johnson’s hell
hounds/did
not/have portraits of my laughter
for/supper   Like my grand
mother/I use wash
board charred speech/patterns
from the elders’
years/to scrub
my vision
clean


10.
A river/up
the sleeve/of rice
filled/dreams
rises/to hollers
from low/moaned levee
whispers/flat
footed/in their evocations
where/séances in hand
shakes/do
not mean/a dog
gone thing/unless the dog
on   Side
orders/of my lips
conjure/ladders
I/climb   from dry
bones    Where/my smile
is/a chapter
nine/for the bad
times   Good
bye/now


11.
My
song/is a memory wall
where/drinking
gourds/climb
for/rhythms   I
interrogate/after I
find/Burrell’s chordal
silhouettes/dancing in
side/my head
liner/notes in blues pub
crawls/like a king
snake/dancer on parole


12.
There
is no injunction
to keep me from exhibiting
Little Walter’s sound
stages   Of a harmonica’s
growth   Where/the black
man’s soul   is a musical home
stead/every
body wants to claim

Mine
is a road/by wild
streets/cracked
by crack
shots   Here/is in
ward/back
seats/near a cross
road/map of the hard
times/I remember

My face/is an annuity
for generations   In my/wrinkles
the mystery/of dry
bones/open for embattled
souls/ on ice
cream/men’s facets of
expressions of/roads tear
drops travel/for sales


13.
Moments/hibernate
in rhythms/be
headed by/slow
dragging cotton/mouth
longings/The squalid cries
he swallows/refuse hide
and/seek gambits
in wrinkles/Rise


14.
My child
hooded memories of honey
suckled/nights  come
down forty
six/years of revival
scars/on the back
handed/a
mens/I know
in/a thousand languages
I/breathe

I am
a child/a
gain/in this fire
you exhale on landscapes/I
revere in Momma’s how
I got/overs

Harmony/winged finger
tips/reach for
meadows/calling over
monuments/of lowered
screams/I chase

I need/a root
doctor/feel
good/And gospel
train/with box
cars/of blues
in/the night
time/falling from Poppa’s brand new bag
dad/to pay alimony

Near/a  road nurse’s aid
station/where my melody
works/magic
where trans
axle/laughter of a  continent
And/I walk in
this little/light

When/you  open
your/mouth  keys
in/doors of my temples
turn


15.
You/recording
engineer of/bloody
silences/I meet
you/on the  Mississippi river
boats/ferrying dreams a
cross/Lady
Luck’s/whirl
pools/of suctioning thefts

The
land breathes
your/first cries.
Says/your last
name/Pulses drum heads
clapping rivers/a
round/celestial  stairs
you/fold in
your/guitar’s carriage

Bare/feet  of  lost
tales/climb from down
stair
cases/of moon
shine/in your eyes

I /believe
your natural calling
is/a voice  from ruins
in/tattered dreams
from pew/Or from be
hind/a coma’s greedy
bars

When/you saddle your pony
express/rider of screams
I hear/my grand
mother's cry/wither
in laughter/As you break
off/chunks of history
like/it’s a bread
loaf/my daddy
snatches/for a jay
bird/house solo
on vacation

You/a deity
in/kente silhouettes
chanting/epics of muddy
shoes/Conjuring  be
hind/the mighty sun
glasses of rum
where/seldom good
byes/erode in
to/instruments of lineage

Just/a closer
walk/with Shango
or/Ogun fades in
to my mother’s/memory

My grand
father/is a boy
hood/I know in/Mississippi  mud
caked/designed of dreams
for/me
Silhouettes/of muscadine
vines/orbit his shoulders
As/if in a gesture of
resentment/Steal nectar
from/the strange
fruit/Swing low
sweet/acoustic beverages
Swing/low coming
for/to carry me


16.
You
invent space/before
hands/strike the Twelfth
Knight/Where  winding
caprices/of narrow
roads/are recipes

There
is/a century of debts
in/your little finger
but/rib
tips/in your thumbing
a ride/past Sammy
cross/and another day
light/brigades of troubles
in view/Where he keeps nineteen
thirty two/all
ways/in his voice

You
preacher/with
a/black suit
case/of dance
floor/mats be
tween/vacations
in/your rhythms

Your song/payments of a few hand
claps/in a store
front/memory where a voiceless
spirit/balances its self
hood/on your timing foot
pats/ on the back of Saint
Peter/The launched
smile/of gangrene rivers
ascend/contours of your closed eyes
for/a balm


17.
There
was a time/I
had/horns for
tenor/moments or
claimed/fare
wells/I borrow
from/melodious epics
each/breath
each/fingered evocation
elicits/from wood
from/wind
instructed/to sing arias of
deliverance/from rain
Where/Satchmo’s
indigo/note
books/of riffs ascend
moans/from a shallow hole
in/Bessie’s pig
iron/discs
She sips/Old Man
Grand
piano’s/ chordal
whispers


18.
Lurrie/a back door
man
din
go/home child
hood/in pain

Tracks/down
home blues for a chi
town/house party
in/his soul
Sits/behind square
dices/coughing tooth
aches/he remembers

Good/morning little
school/house
Can/I
go/home

I say/hello
to/a canopy of rain
bows/I tie
with/aboriginal
tones

He/takes
space/of black hole
in/ones
in/Tiger’s drives
along galaxies

Removes/salt
peanuts/from back
beats/of rain
on/my window’s pains

He/the ancient dining
room/beneath the pain in
side/us


19.
Beale Street/shadows
wade/in water
lilies/in your years where Memphis
Slim's/pyramids
commence/longing foot
pats/tic
tac/toes in crosses of burning
nights

There
is/a bridge
over/choir
buoys/in your guitar
Calling from/ god’s
umbrella

He/sweeps  voodoo
caked/wind sent by
a/cloud
to train/him
how/to ride a tree
top/Where he breathes
alphabet/scorched dreams
in/field of dry
bones

 
Sterling Plumpp

Sterling D. Plumpp—blues poet and essayist—is the author of fourteen books including Velvet Bebop Kente Cloth, Ornate with Smoke, and Blues Narratives. He is the editor of two anthologies, Somehow We Survive, a collection of South African writing, and Steel Pudding: Writing from the Gary Historical and Cultural Society Writer’s Workshop. Plumpp is Professor Emeritus at the University of Chicago where he served on the faculty in the African American Studies and English Departments and most recently served as a visiting professor in the Master of Fine Arts Program at Chicago State University. In 2009, Valley Voices produced an entire issue of its journal, The Sterling Plumpp Issue, focused on his poetry, interviews, and critical explorations of his work. He is the recipient of numerous awards as a blues poet and African American cultural storyteller. His most recent book of poems, Home/Bass (forthcoming, Third World Press), was inspired by the life of blues artist Willie Kent.

Reginald Gibbons, Director of Planning for TriQuarterly, interviewed Plumpp in 2003. The full text of the interview was published here in 2010.

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