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Black Feminist Expressions
A Dangerous Knowing; Four Black Women Poets, by
Barbara Burford, Jackie Kay, Grace Nichols, Gabriela
Pearse. Sheba Feminist Publishers. $6.95 softcover.
of strong, wild air,
leapers and sounders
of depths and barriers.
...that ancient Black Woman
waiting within
for me to call her
let her out to roam
about my hopes and fears...
I see the old dry-head woman
leaning on her hoe
twist-up and shaky like a cripple insea
I see the pit of her eye
In these days when the Black woman's voice is
being choked down under the guise of "budget cuts"
and "not suitable for a broad (white) audience," it is no
less than a miracle that A Dangerous Knowing; Four
Black Women Poets made it onto a bookstore shelf at
all. In faa, this volume celebrates itself as the first
anthology of the poetry of four British-based Black
feminist writers. Full of unhindered and startling
imagery, it stands as a testimony to the depth of Black
feeling and the complex power inherent in Black love.
The poetry of Barbara Burford is lyrical and meant
to be read out loud. Her sounds are like a walk through
soft brush, as in "The Other":
Four you are the salmon leaper
in my headlong flood. Stretching, flashing.
The deep undershimmer of my still riverbottom.
The smooth pebble
cool in my desert mouth.
Closely linked to this steady sensuality are her
unmatched indignation in "The Nth Day of Christmas,"
and her loneliness for a baby lost in "Christine.”
Burford's sense of fun and adventure shows in such
lines as:
Down off my perch.
Runniri on all fours,
a rose between my teeth.
Down-Looky here!
in "State of the Art," and her strong bond with women
and herself is apparent in her "Women Talking":
And we are mistresses
Designer Lines
Forty Ways to Sunday, by Robert
McCartney Moore, Knights Press, Pound
Ridge, NY, 1987: paperback $8.50.
A note on the first page of Forty Ways
to Sunday explains that the title is
American slang for "total confusion." The
novel is anything but confused, however.
It's a fairly normal tale about two men
who fall in love, who are pulled apart by
circumstances, and then ultimately
reunited.
The circumstances are the international
world of wealth and glamor, as
personified by the wealthy and glamorous
Pola. Pola's husband is Sydney Straight,
the dynamic hotel developer, who bears
some resemblance to New York real
estate mogul Donald Trump. Straight
builds an opulent hotel with a glassed
garden in the heart of Manhattan, and this
project leads to our two heroes, Donald
and David.
David McCartney is the narrator. He is
young and blond, and not afraid to call
himself an interior decorator. He is just
getting his start in business as the story
opens, but his love life is nowhere on the
map. By chance, he meets Donald Meier
on the street. Donald is also young, but
while David feels like an "urban wren,"
Donald is tall, flamboyant, sexy, and
know-it-all. Donald is also Jewish, for
what that may be worth. He bosses David
unmercifully, David loves it, and they
have fabulous sex - often.
When they first meet, Donald is a
dance instructor, diddling his lady
customers. He knows plants, though, so
David steers him into business as a garden
designer. The two collaborate on the
hotel and on Pola's Long Island house,
then proceed to more spectacular projects
for Straight, all over the world. As if to
justify his name, Straight has sex with any
woman in sight, but especially with the
The magic of her poetry is in the way she handles
the subtle yet important relationship between sound and
imagery.
Jackie Kay was bom in Scotland. Her voice is
assertive and irreverent, as in "So You Think I'm a
Mule?":
I have to tell you:
take your beady eyes offa my skin;
don't concern yourself with
the "dialectic of mixtures";
don't pull that strange blood crap
on me Great White Mother.
Kay’s feminism is keen and rampant in her lines, but
not to distraction. In "Happy Ending" she muses:
Maybe Rapunzel
gets rescued by a
woman fum of muscle
and strong of heart
who takes the scissors out
after dinner and says
"You could use a hair cut'...
and then ends with:
Whilst we lie on
this solid bed
we make our own stories.
showing the value she places on self-determination and
strong community. The power of women does not
elude her in "The Sky Changes Every Second Now":
bewitching Princess Itchypetal, from
Mexico. Jealous Pola seduces gay David,
and amid much decadent society intrigue,
marries him. They go so far as to begat a
daughter, but David is never really won
over to heterosex. On business trips to
Madrid and Tokyo, he manages some
torrid gay sex scenes, as Donald does
likewise in southern France and Peru.
The two finally argue themselves back
together. Pola returns to her husband,
who has been suitably humbled, and a
British nanny takes charge of the baby.
The great thing about all this activity is
that it is told in dialogue-fast, witty, racy
lines of repartee. It sounds like a Noel
Coward play, specifically Design for
Living. Indeed, the characters are
essentially Noel Coward types. While this
approach sparkles, it can also prove a little
exhausting, like the conversation at a
charity ball. In the end, everyone seems
motivated mostly by a need to sound
smart. The crux of the plot-Pola's cynical
manipulation of David-remains
unexplored. For such an event to happen,
what would be the psychological givens?
What would be the consequences in the
real world?
The real world, even for the very rich,
is not at all what Moore presents. And his
version of the world of interior design is
striedy fluff. I say this as a designer, with
experience working for two of the top
names in New York, Angelo Donghia and
David Easton.
Still, if not taken too seriously, Moore's
romps through the Rainbow Room, the
island of Delos, and Madison Square
Garden on the back of an elephant, his
fixation on diamonds and gourmet food,
and his frequent sexcapades-all these
make for a fun read. The minor
characters, like old Miss Hecker, are first-
rate, and the use of body gestures to
supplement the dialogue is dramtically
right. I'd be curious to see Moore tackle
more down-to-earth material-meat as
opposed to meringue. His comic gift is
nothing short of brilliant.
- Robert Boucheron
but the sense in tragic death does elude her. Jackie Kay
says in "And I Still Cannot Believe It":
I awoke this morning
crying for you
reaching out to hold you
desperate for movement
for time to stretch our possibilities
for hours to let a sprinkling
of our dreams take
root
I hear her rattle bone laugh
putting a chill up my spine
She also pronounces her own power and writes of
rebellion and change. In "I Coming Back" and "Wind
A Change," Nichols gives direaion to the means by
which she believes revolution will come about:
Wind a change
blow soft but
steadfast..
But pass easy
up the big house
way
let them sleep
they happy white sleep
Yes, Wind a change
keep yuh coming fire secret
Grace Nichols also has her own slim volume of
poetry, The Fat Black Woman's Poems (Virago Press,
London) that is well worth the purchase.
Lastly, there is the work of Gabriela Pearse, who
was bom in Columbia. Her voice is young and
optimistic, vulnerable and fresh. Although some of her
imagery does not work for this reader, as in "Credo":
Continued on Page 14
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Kay's word-music is rhythmic in "Remi" but impacts
like glass. She writes:
I sang to you before
my soul echoed a longing
you returned
we held each other's need
and our sweat stuck
our bare Black skins together,
we tried to banish that image forever
The poetry of native Guyanan Grace Nichols is
steeped in the roots of Black culture, and forges strong
links baween women and magic, nature and dreams.
Her imagery is simple, yet haunting and sulfurous, as in
"Up My Spine":
habitat haven home hacienda hovel
hotel house hideaway or hut
Whatever your dream
house maybe
... I would like to help you find that special
place to hang your heart... or sell that place
your heart has outgrown.
I
l.AM lil.k I
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