#gregory pardlo

Whereas professional wrestling is often condemned as lowbrow and “fake,” North American poetry has long been condemned as elitist and inconsequential. Insiders love what they love; outsiders sneer. Taste matters: both poetry and professional wrestling suffer critiques from eye-rolling outsiders; both nonetheless hold the passion of devoted insiders. And both, crucially, blur the boundaries of producers and consumers—be it performers and/as audiences or writers and/as readers.

In the prologue to Spectral Evidence, Pulitzer winner Gregory Pardlo’s new collection, he writes, “This book is about the legal means by which fear is used to rationalize the persecution of people imagined to be in league with the possessed of supernatural forces. This book argues that the logic used to rationalize the prosecution of witches is the same logic that rationalizes vigilantism and police street justice.” He goes on to consider that both Black men and white women are “similarly pressed into service as both muse and monster in the Western cultural imagination,” while, at their ghostly intersection, the patriarchy is haunted by “the omnipresent but rarely named” Black woman. 

One iconic example, brought forth in these shimmering poems of the self as shaped by (and shaping) American history, is Tituba, the only woman of color to be accused in the Salem witch trials.

Occult

Zero your scales to the burden of a lash, Dear Justice, but let Tituba clumsy the Magistrates’ minds with a wag of her wizened index. A flight risk near forests of the Wampanoag where Christians savaged Queen Weetamoo’s corpse, what else might Tituba, nonwhite and woman, haunt but a margin of error? She’s a catbird’s song trapped in the chimney. She’s egg whites in water, she is the tumescence of smoke. Dear Mami Wata, let Tituba prove to be the stone that splits the stream of their vision. Let her renounce sight and be unseen. Let her cough ground coral in the shedding of a pewter moon, that she, of all the innocents, should live. Dear Three-headed Hecate, replace her, the unthought thought, with wax, twigs, horse hair and straw. Let her not appear as a witness. Nor as evidence. As with the talking dog, let her be the hoodoo that speaks through their mirrors. Let a hang-thread skein of yarn ghost the floorboards tempting a red cat—his familiars, the devil and his counsel, the canary. Let her conjure the man in black they fear who charms pilgrims on the road to paradise, disguised as a harmless birdwatcher. Dear Nemesis, let her feed the court a few names from his register—a taste of her truth, her mise en abyme, her one hell that calls forth another. With no standing on her own behalf, let her sit in judgment. Let this power invested of gavel and oath help her give birth through her mouth like a god.

More on this book and author:

Learn more about Spectral Evidence by Gregory Pardlo.

Browse other books by Gregory Pardlo and follow him on Twitter @pardlo.

Click here for a special NYPL recording of Imani Perry and Gregory Pardlo in conversation about Spectral Evidence. 

Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

Written by Himself

I was born in minutes in a roadside kitchen a skillet

whispering my name. I was born to rainwater and lye;

I was born across the river where I

was borrowed with clothespins, a harrow tooth,

broadsides sewn in my shoes. I returned, though

it please you, through no fault of my own,

pockets filled with coffee grounds and eggshells.

I was born still and superstitious; I bore an unexpected burden.

I gave birth, I gave blessing, I gave rise to suspicion.

I was born abandoned outdoors in the heat-shaped air,

air drifting like spirits and old windows.

I was born a fraction and a cipher and a ledger entry;

I was an index of first lines when I was born.

I was born waist-deep stubborn in the water crying

ain’t I a woman and a brother I was born

to this hall of mirrors, this horror story I was

born with a prologue of references, pursued

by mosquitoes and thieves, I was born passing

off the problem of the twentieth century: I was born.

I read minds before I could read fishes and loaves;

I walked a piece of the way along before I was born.

Gregory Pardlo

It's about an intense moment with a complete stranger, which... how unthinkable is that now? To have a moment like that with a complete stranger? Gives me chills.

Hope you get out of the slump! May fair winds find you soon! 🍃

Gregory Pardlo, from “Wishing Well”