by Danez Smith
A Note on Poetry E-Books
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& the boys, full of fear turned into dinner, fall asleep & they dream
black movie
black movie
Danez Smith
Button Poetry / Exploding Pinecone Press
Minneapolis, Minnesota
2015
Copyright © 2015 by Danez Smith
Published by Button Poetry / Exploding Pinecone Press Minneapolis, MN 55403
http://buttonpoetry.com
All Rights Reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cover Design: Nikki Clark
ISBN 978-1-943735-00-6
Ebook ISBN 978-1-943735-09-9
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Sleeping Beauty in the Hood
Boyz n the Hood 2
Jim Crow, Rock Star
A History of Violence in the Hood
The Secret Garden in the Hood
scene: portrait of black boy with flowers
Lion King in the Hood
auto-play
Short Film
Politics of Elegy
Dear White America
Notes for a Film on Black Joy
Dinosaurs in the Hood
Credits
Because, if I’m honest, people in the white world might be appalled,
but in the black world, they’re making myths out of me.
And I know that ain’t the life.
—John Singleton
SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE HOOD
In the film, townsfolk
name themselves Prince Charming,
queue up to wake the sleeping beauty.
Let’s name her Jamal.
Let’s make her everyone’s brother
or play cousin. All the princes
press a kiss to Jamal’s wax-dipped lips.
All the princes sing songs & kill dragons
but Jamal won’t wake up.
You mad? This ain’t no kid flick. There is no magic here.
The fairies get killed too. The kingdom has no king.
All the red in this cartoon is painted with blood:
the apples, the velvet robes, Jamal’s cold mouth.
BOYZ N THE HOOD 2
Let’s not mention the original
nor cast any boyz at all.
The whole thing is a series
of birthday parties for the child
who lives in the picture frame.
Every year we watch his family
light candles on a blue cake.
Every year we watch the family
watch their home burn to the ground.
The movie gets old. The boy never will.
JIM CROW, ROCK STAR
picture him up there!
seersucker cut-offs too tight
cotton shirt freshly picked
& exposed belly, pink cock rocking
a guitar made from your aunt’s bones
strung with your great-granddaddy’s
stretched out beard.
no fireworks or back up dancers,
he barely sings above a mosquito-wing hum
but you can’t turn away, his foot
pressed into the stage like a neck
masked in a hood of blonde curls.
wicked show! when’s he’s done
you can’t even clap, but the encore?
just when you think
the lights are going ghost
he scans the crowd, picks
the youngest brown boy
within reach, hands him
a pistol, whispers
play.
A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE IN THE HOOD
could be a documentary or could be someone’s art school thesis
but basically we make a dope ass trailer with a hundred black
children smiling into the camera & the last shot is the wide mouth
of a pistol. We cut on the sound of that gun’s hot grey bite
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& the preview just keeps repeating over & over
& by the end of it, I’m sure some folks will want
their money back
but I’m sure some will just die for it.
They’ll just die.
THE SECRET GARDEN IN THE HOOD
or what happens to dead kids when the dirt does its work
Jonathan, 17, is a blue azalea
sitting in Mary’s office.
She waters him every other day.
Devon, 15, sits on the corner
dressed in baby’s breath.
His new arms bloom & toes
tangle with cigarette butts.
Kevin, 19, doesn’t hang
out far from his headstone.
He is the greenest grass
in a graveyard that reads
like an attendance sheet.
Sharlenne, 11, was planted
yesterday, will be heirloom
tomatoes by summer.
Mason, 13, was run over
by a 4 year old
barely a bulb himself.
Kim, 14, went to prom
pinned to a pinstripe suit.
George, 18, never comes off the porch.
LaShawn, 9, was rolled up
& smoked by the busted
victorious lips of a newly
crowned Crip.
Kyle, 10, is brown again, dead again.
Precious, 11 months
was blown into a wish.
Chucky, 20, made it
to his brother’s funeral
laid himself across the casket.
SCENE: PORTRAIT Of A BLACK BOY WITH FLOWERS
& he is not in a casket
nor do I say roses all around him
& mean a low blood tide
he does not return to dirt
the stem does not bloom
from concrete
he does not bring flowers
to his best friend’s wake
nor does he give them
to a woman who will
grieve him one day
the boy is in his aunt’s garden
& the world does not matter
his lungs are full
of a green, full scent
pollen dusts his skin
gold as he grows
LION KING IN THE HOOD
i. cast list
Mufasa & his absence played by every father ever
Simba played by the first boy you know who died too young
Sarabi played by the woman in church who forgot the taste
of praise once
the ground took her son captive
Nala played by the girl crying on the swing for her valentine who
now dates the dirt
Timon & Pumbaa played by Ray-Ray & Man-Man, the joy of
not-dead friends
Zazu played by the ghost of James Baldwin
Rafiki played by a good uncle with a bad habit, his lust for rocks &
stones
Scar played anyone’s Uncle June, his ways & his sins & his good
good laugh
The endless rows of hyenas played by a gust
choked tight with bullet shells
the bullets now dressed in a boy
ii. Opening Credits
brought to you by Disney & dead aunts
brought to you on a platter, an apple in the lionboy’s mouth
brought to you on a ship bottom reeking of shit & an unnamed sick
brought to you on a tree branch heavy with a tree-colored man
iii. Opening Scene: The Circle of [interrupted] Life
Nants ingonyama bagithi baba
Sithi uhhmm [BANG] ingonyama
Nants ingonyama [a mother calls for her son] bagithi baba
Sithi [BANG BANG] uhhmm ingonyama
Ingonyama Siyo [the sound of blood leaving a boy] Nqoba
Ingonyama [a mother’s knees fall into a puddle
of the blood she made herself]
Ingonyama [the slow song of a spirit rising] nengw’ enamabala
[the spirit confused about where its body went]
iv. Song: Oh I Just Can’t Wait To Be King
this is the part where they realize that black people dream
& our blood is indeed blood & our teeth, teeth
& the music is loud because the field was wide & long
& we dreamed of simple things: shoes, our children back
this is the part where the racist cuts off his tongue, a wet, pink
repent
he gives his eyes & his hands & himself to the lions
& the lions feast & the lions are still a metaphor for black boys
& the boys, full of fear turned into dinner, fall asleep & they dream
yes, yes, we really do dream.
v. Song: Be Prepared
for the hands, wild in your wildless hair
for the darkest toll, your double down to get half
to spread your legs while they search for drugs there
for the drug there, for their mouths to ask that big question
for the man, ecstatic with triggers
for the stampede of tiny lead beasts
for the jury not to flinch
vi. Scene: Mufasa Dies at the hands of his brother Scar
What did you expect to be different?
The hood is any jungle (say who? what color the mouth saying?):
a brother kills a brotha
dark, white birds circling above
vii. Montage: Timon & Pumbaa teach Simba a music other than the blues
clip 1: the boy getting older in spite of everything
clip 2: the boy & the boy-friends smoking blunts
for once something else brown & on fire
clip 3: the boy who would be king with his mouth
in another man’s throne
clip 4: Timon & Simba singing
down each other’s throat
clip 5: Simba calling Pumbaa a faggot & they all laugh
clip 6: murals of all the dead friends’ faces
clip 7: funeral songs. small caskets
clip 8: red, blue, periwinkle, yellow, black, & blood-maroon rags
clip 9: flowers & picture frames on the side walk
clip 10: shot of the boys laughing anyway
clip 11: shot of the boys laughing in the sun
clip 12: shot of the boys laughing in the rain
clip 13: shot of them not being shot
viii. Scene: Simba comes home to kill his uncle
again, a black man
kills a black man
roll the credits
I must go weep.
Why does Disney remind us
what we have learned:
- one black light swallows another so easy
- killing is unavoidable as death
- the king’s throne is wet with his brother’s blood
- the queen suffers too but gets no name
ix. closing credits
say the name
of the first boy
you love
who died.
say it
& don’t cry.
say it
& love
the air around your tongue.
say it
& watch
the fire come.
say it
& watch the son rise.
AUTO-PLAY
SHORT FILM
i. not an elegy for Trayvon Martin
how long
does it take
a story
to become
a legend?
how long before
a legend
becomes
a god or
forgotten?
ask the rain
what it was
like to be the river
then ask
who it drowned.
ii. not an elegy for Mike Brown
I am sick of writing this poem
but bring the boy. his new name
his same old body. ordinary, black
dead thing. bring him & we will mourn
until we forget what we are mourning
& isn’t that what being black is about?
not the joy of it, but the feeling
you get when you are looking
at your child, turn your head,
then, poof, no more child.
that feeling. that’s black.
think: once, a white girl
was kidnapped & that’s the Trojan war.
later, up the block, Troy got shot
& that was Tuesday. are we not worthy
of a city of ash? of 1,000 ships
launched because we are missed?
always, something deserves to be burned.
it’s never the right thing.
I demand a war to bring the dead boy back
no matter what his name is this time.
I at least demand a song. a head.
a song will do for now.
look at what the lord has made.
above Missouri, sweet smoke.
iii. not an elegy for Renisha McBride
but an ode to whoever did her hair
& rubbed the last oil into her cold scalp
or a myth of the bullet, the red yolk it hungers to show her
or the tale his hands, pale & washed in shadow
for they finished what the car could not.
if I must call this her fate, I know the color of God’s face.
iv. not an ode for John Crawford (a bop)
saint Anthony. please look around. something’s been lost and it must be found.
saint Anthony. please look around. something’s been lost and it must be found.
story goes homie walked into Wal-Mart
& walked out not born at all.
soon as his hand touched the plastic
them police had a taste for caskets.
& that’s all it takes — touch a toy
become not a boy, not a ghost
become a myth that sounds like a lie
saint Anthony. please look around. something’s been lost and it must be found.
saint Anthony. please look around. something’s been lost and it must be
found.
& does it matter his name? John
Hakim, Anthony, Tim,
Ayiende or Fred. I’m scared
to pronounce a man’s name if
if soon they’ll pronounce him dead.
who fed them this fear or is it human nature
to want to hate the dark?
every time they realize
they can’t stop the night, another mother buries a son.
saint Anthony. please look around. something’s been lost and it must be
found.
saint Anthony. please look around. something’s been lost and it must be found.
story goes John could have been anybody
as long as he was black, but he was John
had his own scars, his joy, his secret wants
his own mama, his own walk, his own name
& for what? nigga can’t go to Wal-Mart without dying?
I try to say my god’s name but it just sounds like vengeance
saint John, saint John. please look around. something’s been lost and it must be
found.
saint John, saint John. please look around. something’s been lost and it must be
found.
saint John, saint John
saint John
John
John?
v. who has time for joy?
how do you expect
me to dance
when every day someone
who looks like everyone
I love is in a gun fight
armed only with skin?
look closely
& you’ll find a funeral
frothing in the corners
of my mouth, my mouth
hungry for a prayer
to make it all a lie.
reader, what does it
feel like to be safe? white?
how does it feel
to dance when you’re not
dancing away the ghost?
how does joy taste
when it’s not followed
by will come in the morning?
reader, it’s morning again
& somewhere, a mother
is pulling her hands
across her seed’s cold shoulders
kissing what’s left
of his face. where
is her joy? what’s she
to do with a son
who’ll spoil soon?
& what of the boy?
what was his last dream?
