Reviews for The garden thrives

The average rating for The garden thrives based on 2 reviews is 3.5 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2014-01-05 00:00:00 John Mix Anthologies can be judged by the scope of contributors considered, the quality of the work represented, and then, of course, the vision of the editor himself. The Garden Thrives surveys 20th C African American poetry from a stance in the mid-90s. As the editor Clarence Major notes, this is the first major survey since Arnold Adoff's wonderful volume, The Poetry of Black America: Anthology of the 20th Century. The poems are arranged chronologically by author birthdate, the difficulty being necessarily that the poets write over a number of years, responding to shifts in culture, interactions with other poets and writers, as well as exploring their own literary styles. In a lifetime of writing, Langston Hughes' voice and subject matter shift considerably, moving from the vernacular to the political. Or take Robert Hayden whose material ranges from the experimental Runagate Runagate to the classic, Those Winter Mornings (alas, both go missing in this volume). On a more contemporary front Yusef Komunyakaa has generated some spectacular meditations on jazz, experimented with more surreal subjects, and gave a hard edged voice to war in Dien Cai Dau -- these voices, too, are missing. The reality is that no anthology can hope to do justice to any individual poet, and at best only give an inkling of what is in store. In terms of the breadth of poetry, Major shows a familiarity with a great number of African American poets. Most of the major names are here, perhaps the one significant missing poet would be Dudley Randall; the late Carolyn Rodgers, too, probably should have had a place as one of the women in the Black Arts Movement of the 60s. As to the poems themselves, Major is a less-reliable editor. As already noted with Hayden, a limitation of five or six poems necessarily means making choices. Especially for the earlier 20th C poets, the editorial hand is a little unsteady, selecting more obscure poems, or perhaps worse, poetry that is fairly tame. That said, there remain some interesting surprises. Sterling Brown's Foreclosure about a flood is very striking. The Countee Cullen poems were also very smart in tone. From the post-war era, Everett Hoagland's Gorée is an excellent find. The inclusion of slam poets Patricia Smith and Paul Beatty brought plenty of delight. Major also captures some of the early work of Kevin Young; this is another poet who keeps delivering quality. Read as a whole, one can also catch Major's own take on poetry. Of special note is the breadth he gives to women's voices. In the poetry of the sixties in particular, African American women were often tightly bound within a male shell. The language and rhetoric were dominantly male. By contrast, Major helps uncover Shange Ntozake's delightful Oh, I'm Ten Months Pregnant. There is also a notable academic or formalist bent. Clearly Major loves the spare lines of William Carlos Williams. This personal preference is also reflected or reinforced by the poets themselves, where the editor turns to academically prepared writers, many with advanced degrees from writing programs and/or the Ivies. The result is a poetry that is too often less direct, more (self) reflective, a poetry without enough heat. So, three stars.

Review # 2 was written on 2017-01-04 00:00:00 Joshua King This book first appeared in 1932. It is still a great read for all ages today. Langston Hughes made a huge impact on my life because he was anthologized often in my literature books. Here is a famous one: "Dreams" Hold onto dreams For if dreams die Life is like a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow. There is often a simple beauty: "Poem" I loved my friend. He went away from me. There's nothing more to say. The poem ends, Soft as it began-- I loved my friend. He had one section about the sea: "Sailor" He sat upon the rolling deck Half a world away from home, And smoked a Capstan cigarette And watched the blue waves tipped with foam. He had a mermaid on his arm, An anchor on his breast, And tattooed on his back he had A blue bird in a nest. He shows a social conscious and evidence of travel: "Parisian Beggar Woman" Once you were young. Now, hunched in the cold, Nobody cares That you are old. Once you were beautiful. Now, in the street, No one remembers Your lips were sweet. Oh, withered old woman Of rue Fontaine, Nobody but death Will kiss you again. He has some great blues poems: "Po' Boy Blues" When I was home de Sunshine seemed like gold. When I was home de Sunshine seemed like gold. Since I come up North de Whole damn world's turned cold. I was a good boy, Never done no wrong. Yes, I was a good boy, Never done no wrong, But this world is weary An' de road is hard an' long. I fell in love with A gal I thought was kind. Fell in love with A gal I thought was kind. She made me lose ma money An' almost lose ma mind. Weary, weary, Weary early in de morn. Weary, weary, Early, early in de morn. I's so weary I wish I'd never been born. And another one: "Wide River" Ma baby lives across de river An' I ain't got no boat. She lives across de river. I ain't got no boat. I ain't a good swimmer An' I don't know how to float. Wide, wide river 'Twixt ma love an' me. Wide, wide river 'Twixt ma love an' me. I never knowed how Wide a river can be. Got to cross that river An' git to ma baby somehow. Cross that river, Git to ma baby somehow' Cause if I don't see ma baby I'll lay down an' die right now. And one that later became the title of a book by a man who dyed his skin black to find out what it would be like to be black in America, Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin: "Dream Variations" To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening Beneath a tall tree While night comes on gently, Dark like me- That is my dream! To fling my arms wide In the face of the sun, Dance! Whirl! Whirl! Till the quick day is done. Rest at pale evening... A tall, slim tree... Night coming tenderly Black like me. And the poem that impacted me in high school: "I, Too" I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong. Tomorrow, I'll be at the table When company comes. Nobody'll dare Say to me, "Eat in the kitchen," Then. Besides, They'll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed' I, too, am America. Here's the advice of a mother to a son: "Mother to Son" Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair. It's had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor' Bare. But all the time I'se been a-climbin' on, And reachin' landin's, And turnin' corners, And sometimes goin' in the dark Where there ain't been no light. So, boy, don't you turn back. Don't you set down on the steps. 'Cause you finds it's kinder hard. Don't you fall now' For I'se still goin', honey, I'se still climbin', And life for me ain't been no crystal stair. And the Jim Crow paradox: "Merry-Go-Round" Where is the Jim Crow section On this merry-go-round, Mister, cause I want to ride? Down South where I come from White and colored Can't sit side by side. Down South on the train There's a Jim Crow car. On the bus we're put in the back' But there ain't no back To a merry-go-round! Where's the horse For a kid that's black?