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  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE SOBBING SCHOOL

  Joshua Bennett received his PhD in English from Princeton University. He is currently a member of the Society of Fellows at Harvard University, and has received fellowships from the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop, the Josephine de Karman Fellowship Trust, the Hurston/Wright Foundation, and the Ford Foundation. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in Beloit Poetry Journal, Callaloo, The Kenyon Review, and New England Review. Bennett tours nationally and internationally as a performance artist and has recited his original work at the Sundance Film Festival, the NAACP Image Awards, and President Obama’s Evening of Poetry, Music, and the Spoken Word at the White House. He lives in New York City.

  THE NATIONAL POETRY SERIES

  The National Poetry Series was established in 1978 to ensure the publication of five collections of poetry annually through five participating publishers. Publication is funded annually by the Lannan Foundation; Amazon Literary Partnership; Barnes & Noble; the Poetry Foundation; the PG Family Foundation; and the Betsy Community Fund; Joan Bingham, Mariana Cook, Stephen Graham, Juliet Lea Hillman Simonds, William Kistler, Jeffrey Ravetch, Laura Baudo Sillerman, and Margaret Thornton. For a complete listing of generous contributors to the National Poetry Series, please visit www.nationalpoetryseries.org.

  2015 COMPETITION WINNERS

  Not on the Last Day, But on the Very Last, by Justin Boening of Iowa City, IA

  Chosen by Wayne Miller, to be published by Milkweed Editions

  The Wug Test, by Jennifer Kronovet of New York, NY

  Chosen by Eliza Griswold, to be published by Ecco

  Scriptorium, by Melissa Range of Appleton, WI

  Chosen by Tracy K. Smith, to be published by Beacon Press

  Trébuchet, by Danniel Schoonebeek of Brooklyn, NY

  Chosen by Kevin Prufer, to be published by University of Georgia Press

  The Sobbing School, by Joshua Bennett of New York, NY

  Chosen by Eugene Gloria, to be published by Penguin Books

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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  New York, New York 10014

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  Copyright © 2016 by Joshua Bennett

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Pages xi–xii constitute an extension of this copyright page.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Bennett, Joshua (Poet)

  Title: The sobbing school / Joshua Bennett.

  Description: New York, New York : Penguin Books, 2016. | Series: National poetry series

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016020931 (print) | LCCN 2016025326 (ebook) | ISBN 9780143111863 (paperback) | ISBN 9781101993101 (ebook)

  Subjects: | BISAC: POETRY / American / General. | POETRY / American / African American.

  Classification: LCC PS3602.E664483 A6 2016 (print) | LCC PS3602.E664483 (ebook) | DDC 811/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016020931

  Cover design: Lynn Buckley

  Cover photograph: Paul Hosefros/The New York Times/Redux Pictures

  Version_1

  For my father & mother, who dreamt of other worlds

  I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all hurt about it. . . . No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.

  —ZORA NEALE HURSTON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the following journals for publishing poems featured in this book:

  Anti-: “12 absolutely true facts about Richard Wright”

  Backbone: “In Defense of Henry Box Brown”

  Beloit Poetry Journal: “Love Poem Ending with Typewriters” and “On Blueness”

  Blackbird: “On Flesh,” “Samson Reconsiders,” and “VCR&B”

  Callaloo: “First Date” and “Yoke”

  The Collagist: “Clench” and “home force: presumption of death”

  Connotation Press: “Black History, abridged”

  CURA: “Fade”

  Drunken Boat: “Didn’t Old Pharaoh Get Lost in the Red Sea: theorizing amnesia in Afro-diasporic maritime literature”

  Fjords Review: “Anthropophobia”

  The Kenyon Review: “Praise song for the table in the cafeteria where all the black boys sat together during A Block, laughing too loudly” and “X”

  Kweli: “Self-Portrait as Periplaneta Americana”

  Magma: “Teacher’s Aide”

  New England Review: “Aubade with Insomnia” and “The Sobbing School”

  Obsidian: “Whenever Hemingway Hums Nigger”

  Pinwheel: “On Stupidity,” “Taxonomy,” and “Tenacious Elegy: Insurgent Life in the Era of Trial by Gunfire with a Line from Sylvia Wynter”

  Smartish Pace: “Fresh”

  Storyscape: “The Order of Things”

  Tupelo Quarterly: “Still Life with First Best Friend”

  Vinyl: “Invocation”

  Wave Composition: “On Extinction” and “Praise House”

  Word Riot: “Theodicy”

  I cannot imagine this book’s entry into the world of the living without the insight and unfettered imagination of Imani Perry, Salamishah Tillet, Charles Rowell, Gregory Pardlo, Josef Sorett, Camille Dungy, Terrance Hayes, Kyle Dargan, Ashon Crawley, Jesse McCarthy, and the entirety of the Black Studies Colloquium at Columbia University. Deepest gratitude to Phillip B. Williams for his singular editorial acuity, and Eugene Gloria for believing in the vision I set out to elaborate herein. Special thanks to Paul Slovak for his patience and trust. Thank you to the members of the Mourners Bench—Jamall Calloway, Jeremy Scott Vinson, and Wesley Morris—for the countless hours spent reading, laughing, and living on in spite of. Thank you to Thiahera Nurse for the series of poetry exchanges that led to the completion of this manuscript, as well as for being the sort of collaborator and friend that makes this work a joyous occasion. Thank you to the Kinfolks editorial board: Jerriod Avant, Desiree Bailey, Lauren Yates, Safia Elhillo, Nate Marshall, Sean DesVignes, and Aziza Barnes for their commitment to the cultivation, rigorous study, and unrelenting celebration of black expressive cultures. Thank you to my Strivers Row family past and present: Alysia Harris, Carvens Lissaint, Miles Hodges, Zora Howard, and every single person that has ever come out to one of our shows. Devin, you already know. Marcus, thank you for always holding me accountable to the people and places I care about most. Thank you, Miles, my beautiful, brilliant nephew, for always reminding me that another world is on its way. And finally, dearest Toya, thank you for all you have done to help me build a kind of life from words given to the air; this book would not exist without your tutelage, your valor, your steadfast love.

  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  IN DEFENSE OF HENRY BOX BROWN

  ON EXTINCTION

  INVOCATION

  YOKE

  TAXONOMY

  DI
DN’T OLD PHARAOH GET LOST IN THE RED SEA: THEORIZING AMNESIA IN AFRO-DIASPORIC MARITIME LITERATURE

  THEODICY

  RUN

  STILL LIFE WITH FIRST BEST FRIEND

  FADE

  WHENEVER HEMINGWAY HUMS NIGGER

  TEACHER’S AIDE

  PRAISE SONG FOR THE TABLE IN THE CAFETERIA WHERE ALL THE BLACK BOYS SAT TOGETHER DURING A BLOCK, LAUGHING TOO LOUDLY

  IN DEFENSE OF PASSING

  FLY

  12 ABSOLUTELY TRUE FACTS ABOUT RICHARD WRIGHT

  CLENCH

  SELF-PORTRAIT AS PERIPLANETA AMERICANA

  ON STUPIDITY

  FIRST DATE

  VARIATION ON THE FATHER AS NARCISSUS

  FRESH

  THE ORDER OF THINGS

  ODE TO THE EQUIPMENT MANAGER

  FAMILY REUNION

  PRAISE HOUSE

  VCR&B

  IN DEFENSE OF DMX

  ODE TO THE MASCOT

  THE SOBBING SCHOOL

  BLACK HISTORY, ABRIDGED

  HOME FORCE: PRESUMPTION OF DEATH

  TENACIOUS ELEGY: INSURGENT LIFE IN THE ERA OF TRIAL BY GUNFIRE WITH A LINE FROM SYLVIA WYNTER

  ANTHROPOPHOBIA

  AUBADE WITH INSOMNIA

  SAMSON RECONSIDERS

  LOVE POEM ENDING WITH TYPEWRITERS

  ON FLESH

  STILL LIFE WITH LITTLE BROTHER

  ON BLUENESS

  X

  PREFACE TO A TWENTY-VOLUME REGICIDE NOTE

  IN DEFENSE OF HENRY BOX BROWN

  Not every trauma has a price

  point. You & I are special

  that way. No doubt, there is good

  money to be made in the rehearsal of

  a father’s rage, an empty crate,

  whatever instrument ushered us into

  lives of impure repetition. Years on

  end, you replayed your infamous

  escape for hundreds

  of tearful devoted, sold out

  shows an ocean away from the place

  that made you possible, made you

  parcel, uncommon contraband carried

  over amber ululations of grain

  & grass & filthy hands:

  white, black, unwitting all the same.

  If they had only known the weight

  of what passed before them.

  The wait you waded through.

  Twenty-seven hours spent inside

  a three-by-two-foot jail of splinter & rust. I too

  have signed over the rights to all my

  best wounds. I know the stage

  is a leviathan with no proper name

  to curtail its breadth. I know

  the respectable man enjoys a dark

  body best when it comes with a good

  cry thrown in. I know all the code

  words, Henry. Why you nicknamed

  the violence. Why all your nightmares

  end in vermilion.

  ON EXTINCTION

  Please, pardon my obsession

  with endings. I was born of two Baptists,

  one backslidden though no less

  fervent when it came to the law,

  the cross, the grain of me

  & my sister’s hair. I was born

  nonwhite in the 1980s,

  arrived in the wake of four girls

  slumped against a project wall

  resembling a long ellipsis, heron

  (my father’s preferred pronunciation)

  having coaxed their heads

  into solemn agreement.

  Mama knew three of the dying

  personally, but maybe this isn’t about her,

  so much as how this scene became a part

  of our extended family, its argument

  clear as a bullet’s signature: to live

  in this flesh is to worship agility,

  to call death by its government name.

  The woman across the table from me is scared

  to raise her son, fears he will be killed

  by police, says this outright, over soup,

  expecting nothing.

  My first thought is of the landscape.

  For a moment, all I can see is flat green oblivion,

  unchecked flora where fourth graders

  once sped across the open. In 1896,

  Frederick Hoffman claimed every Negro

  in the U.S. would be dead by the year

  of my younger brother’s birth. To his credit,

  Hoffman dreamt of neither badge nor bullet,

  but dysentery, tuberculosis, killers

  we could not touch or beg for clemency.

  Hence, when I consider extinction,

  I do not think of sad men with guns,

  or Hoffman standing by the chalkboard

  in his office, discerning algorithms

  for the dead, but of our refusal,

  how my mother, without stopping

  even to write a poem about it,

  woke up that day,

  & this morning again.

  INVOCATION

  Pray for flame

  with the diligence of a saint,

  scarlet tongues of light sharp enough

  to cut bone & soul just the same.

  My parents praise a vengeful God.

  Son of all three, what else did I inherit

  but this commitment to the scales?

  The killer woke up today.

  Probably ate scrambled eggs

  for breakfast, brushed his teeth

  three times or fewer, walked

  in soft slippers through the living

  room, checked the mail

  while a child decomposed underground,

  held still beneath the bloodless weight

  of the law. Baldwin sang The Fire Next Time

  in 1963 & we are living in the wake

  of his impossible love. I too dream

  of such heat. I yearn for nothing

  if not equilibrium, a means to honor

  how elders taught me to pray:

  Lord, if you be

  at all, be

  a blade.

  YOKE

  1

  consider the yoke. its violent geometry.

  how wood and metal

  blur every border.

  grandpa Earl is tilling tobacco in the heavy dark,

  cuffed by the neck to a nameless mule.

  when he meets Lena, he will propose on the spot.

  repent of the land. head north to hunt for a clean start.

  tobacco season came and fled.

  1933 paused to catch its breath

  and grandpa was gone.

  started a second family right down the block. thought it providence.

  2

  my mother stays for the sake of premise, a promise made in the wake

  of my sister’s birth. she loves us despite him. to spite him.

  she cannot leave any more than she can unlearn the shape of our mouths.

  what does it mean to be wholly for another? to count your seed as both anchor

  and anima?

  3

  bulletproof glass turned my older brother into a prime number. stuffed his libretto in a cage. corrections: as if he were an essay of bone. dad was wrong. the belt’s leather cadence is all my brother and I share, all that binds us across age and the irreverence of steel.

  TAXONOMY

  as cormorant. as crow. as colon. as comma.

  as coma. as shadow. as shade. as show.

  as collards. as collection plate. as play cousin.

  as dozens. a
s sea. as depth where light

  don’t dare tread. as treason. as gun. as gullet.

  as gully. as ghetto came to be named.

  as Cain. as antonym. as animal ontology.

  as analogy always. as antimatter.

  as bullet’s best bet. as best friend. as bobby

  pin. as Bobby Brown. as brown crayons

  color everything in this house. as the inside

  of a nap. as Mama’s naps. as the hot comb

  she used to lay them down like a burden.

  as burden. as burial. as breath. as break beat.

  as breaking: as anything that burns.

  DIDN’T OLD PHARAOH GET LOST IN THE RED SEA: THEORIZING AMNESIA IN AFRO-DIASPORIC MARITIME LITERATURE

  Keywords: absence, being-for-another, undertow, thalassophobia, phantom limb

  Abstract:

  Though there has certainly been a recent wave of scholarship in the field of hydropoetics that attends to the necessarily fraught relationship between writers of the African diaspora and their encounters with the sea, many of which are watermarked by the serrated memory of the Middle Passage and its afterlife, what has heretofore been left largely undertheorized are the ways in which these very same writers might encounter the sea as a trick mirror against which they are able to craft new worlds out of black, wet infinity, like Elohim in Genesis 1 or a child in a darkroom. Thus, this poem is interested in using the moment the speaker looks into the sea for the first time on a family trip to Antigua, thousands of miles away from the unknowable depth of his block, which is its own kind of benthos, as a springboard for considering what it means to never be able to regain what is lost (even a name or less heavy tongue) and what that sort of truancy can make of a seven-year-old who, even then, could not shake the feeling that his legs were not his own.

  THEODICY

  for Renisha McBride

  When yet another one of your kin falls,

  you question God’s wingspan, the architecture

  of mercy. It is Friday morning, & despair

  is the only law

  left intact. No one knows how to stop