This last month I've really gained an appreciation for poetry. The way someone can craft words so beautifully, so simply, yet so profound. And I can't help but remember who first opened my eyes to poetry, particularly free verse. That would be Jake Adam York. He was a professor here at my school, and last semester he came into my UHL class and gave a presentation called "Inscriptions for Air". It was a painful yet moving presentation to sit through. Painful because York recounted in detail and with images the brutality of the Civil Rights Movement. This was the first time I've almost cried in a class. While listening, I felt ashamed of my skin color. York touched on that very topic himself, saying that he always made sure to wear a nice black blazer so he didn't look as intimidating with his white skin and bald head.
York spoke about what he's doing to help. Along with an organization, York was finding the names of people who were harmed in the Civil Rights movement that were forgotten, and writing poetry about them. The Civil Rights memorial with the water includes forty names, but there were many, many other's who lost their lives just because of the color of their skin. York grew up in the south, he knows what it's like down there, he told how some of those attitudes are still present. But he's making a difference through his poetry. York told us how when you start telling one story, all the other stories that have been hidden deep down have a sort of permission to be told.
Then, York handed out some of his poetry in the works, and explained the story of the people they were about. Reverently, he read his words to the class. It was an incredible feeling sitting there in that moment, I can still remember it so clearly. My favorite poem is entitled "Palms." I dug it out of a drawer the other day, thankful for my packrat tendencies. I'd like to share it here. It's about Frank Morris, a shoemaker who was burned when his shop was set on fire December 10, 1964. He died December 14, 1964.
What the remember is the palms
of his feet, the only skin
not dressed in white,
not the glaze of plasma or eschar
when they change the gauze
Eyes' erratic semaphores.
The palms of his feet, the pulse
hard within.
Not fire
walking in the shape of a man,
the sleeves, the yoke, the back
shining gasoline - or the shop
gone up like a cross,
a church where he'd worked
the town's worn shoes.
Not the glass, the skin
real white he rasps
to the agent as the tape,
the gauze unreel.
What they remember is
the palms of his feet,
the last whole skin
where he could feel. How
his hands held tools
he'd never named to either son
to mend the tongue,
the toe, the heel, the sole,
then hand back the shoe.
How slowly they touched him
on the palms of his feet
the last skin his work saved
-Jake Adam York
When I came back from break this semester and started my creative writing class and this love of poetry started up again, I kept thinking about York. How I wanted to take a class with him. And just how much that poem "Palms" touched me. That first Friday though, the news was shared with us that York had passed away during the holidays. Even though I'd only met this man once, I felt sadness. He was so young and it was unexpected. When I got home the first thing I did was re read "Palms" I read it over the phone to Sammy, and teared up a bit. I was so thankful that Sammy appreciated the beauty of that poem as well and let me just share it.
I've been reading about York on the internet lately. I want to know more about him. I laughed when I read his description of barbecue here. But what I keep searching for is his poem "Palms". I can't find it anywhere on the internet. I checked the table of contents of all his poetry books, and it's not there either. I can't help but wonder if this was part of some new project he was working on, and didn't get the chance to finish. That's one of my greatest fears, that I won't be able to finish all the projects I want to write, or that I'll be halfway done with one and someone will pick it up and give it the wrong ending. Haha. So I feel even more curious while reading this poem. What was he going to pair it with? Was it how he wanted it? What else did he have that wasn't shared with the world? Maybe he didn't want this all shared with everyone.
I guess I'll never know, but that's alright. This poem still has so much meaning to me, and how much more for anyone who knew York better, or even Frank Morris who it was written about. It still amazes me the power words can have. One things for sure though, neither men will ever be forgotten again after this. Words have that power, the power of immortality. We don't need to search for some fountain of youth, all we need is some pen and paper.
I just wanted to write a tribute here for Jake Adam York. He worked so hard and so beautifully memorialized people who would have otherwise been forgotten. And I'll always remember him and that quiet day with those words. If you want to read more about Jake Adam York, my current professor has his own website and included some of his other work and an interview here
York spoke about what he's doing to help. Along with an organization, York was finding the names of people who were harmed in the Civil Rights movement that were forgotten, and writing poetry about them. The Civil Rights memorial with the water includes forty names, but there were many, many other's who lost their lives just because of the color of their skin. York grew up in the south, he knows what it's like down there, he told how some of those attitudes are still present. But he's making a difference through his poetry. York told us how when you start telling one story, all the other stories that have been hidden deep down have a sort of permission to be told.
Then, York handed out some of his poetry in the works, and explained the story of the people they were about. Reverently, he read his words to the class. It was an incredible feeling sitting there in that moment, I can still remember it so clearly. My favorite poem is entitled "Palms." I dug it out of a drawer the other day, thankful for my packrat tendencies. I'd like to share it here. It's about Frank Morris, a shoemaker who was burned when his shop was set on fire December 10, 1964. He died December 14, 1964.
What the remember is the palms
of his feet, the only skin
not dressed in white,
not the glaze of plasma or eschar
when they change the gauze
Eyes' erratic semaphores.
The palms of his feet, the pulse
hard within.
Not fire
walking in the shape of a man,
the sleeves, the yoke, the back
shining gasoline - or the shop
gone up like a cross,
a church where he'd worked
the town's worn shoes.
Not the glass, the skin
real white he rasps
to the agent as the tape,
the gauze unreel.
What they remember is
the palms of his feet,
the last whole skin
where he could feel. How
his hands held tools
he'd never named to either son
to mend the tongue,
the toe, the heel, the sole,
then hand back the shoe.
How slowly they touched him
on the palms of his feet
the last skin his work saved
-Jake Adam York
When I came back from break this semester and started my creative writing class and this love of poetry started up again, I kept thinking about York. How I wanted to take a class with him. And just how much that poem "Palms" touched me. That first Friday though, the news was shared with us that York had passed away during the holidays. Even though I'd only met this man once, I felt sadness. He was so young and it was unexpected. When I got home the first thing I did was re read "Palms" I read it over the phone to Sammy, and teared up a bit. I was so thankful that Sammy appreciated the beauty of that poem as well and let me just share it.
I've been reading about York on the internet lately. I want to know more about him. I laughed when I read his description of barbecue here. But what I keep searching for is his poem "Palms". I can't find it anywhere on the internet. I checked the table of contents of all his poetry books, and it's not there either. I can't help but wonder if this was part of some new project he was working on, and didn't get the chance to finish. That's one of my greatest fears, that I won't be able to finish all the projects I want to write, or that I'll be halfway done with one and someone will pick it up and give it the wrong ending. Haha. So I feel even more curious while reading this poem. What was he going to pair it with? Was it how he wanted it? What else did he have that wasn't shared with the world? Maybe he didn't want this all shared with everyone.
I guess I'll never know, but that's alright. This poem still has so much meaning to me, and how much more for anyone who knew York better, or even Frank Morris who it was written about. It still amazes me the power words can have. One things for sure though, neither men will ever be forgotten again after this. Words have that power, the power of immortality. We don't need to search for some fountain of youth, all we need is some pen and paper.
I just wanted to write a tribute here for Jake Adam York. He worked so hard and so beautifully memorialized people who would have otherwise been forgotten. And I'll always remember him and that quiet day with those words. If you want to read more about Jake Adam York, my current professor has his own website and included some of his other work and an interview here
Comments
Post a Comment