This review was originally published at BrazosBookstore.com on 2.1.16
Awards don’t impress me. This is not to say that if I wrote a book and someone, or a board of someones, decided to give me an award (or some money) that I would reject it. Awards rescue writers from obscurity, they propel people to keep reading, etc etc.
However, they also create this weird dynamic of deserving. Some people see those stickers on book jackets and think, “These are the only books worth reading.” Where I experience this bias, and how it affects me directly, is when someone comes to Brazos Bookstore looking for a gift for, say, their Aunt Peggy, who “only likes books that win awards…”
I am not Aunt Peggy. So, when I open THE VOYAGE OF THE SABLE VENUS by Robin Coste Lewis, debut poetry collection and National Book Award-winner, I dare it to impress me. And for all my anti-hype wariness, it’s immediate. In the first poem “Plantation,” Lewis writes: “Because you had never been hungry, I knew / I could tell you the black side / of my family owned slaves.”
In three simple lines, Lewis calls out slavery apologists and attacks the misconception that we live in a post-racial society by challenging our textbook understanding of race in America. It’s easy for anyone to say that slavery is over and racism is dead. Once upon a time, the whites abused the blacks then the blacks got free and we lived happily-ever-after. This is not that. When the speaker confesses something personal, something awful, it complicates that portrait.
However, the true marvel in this passage is not that Lewis contains so much in so little—she is a poet, after all. It is her decision to approach the reader as a lover. Here, the speaker harbors no outrage, only shame. The speaker says, “I am going to share this with you, this thing I never share with anyone.” It’s irresistible, this intimacy.
By the end of the poem, though, the sweetness (“We laughed when I said plantation, / fell into our chairs when I said cane”) turns sinister. Not because of anything inside the poem—the speaker maintains adoration (“And meanwhile, all I could think about / were the innumerable ways I would’ve loved / to have eaten you”). It’s the indignation the reader feels that the speaker also maintains silence (arguably when there should be screaming):
my pubic bone toward you. I didn’t
say, It’s still broken; I didn’t tell
you, There’s still this crack. It was sore,
but I stayed silent because you were smiling.
The lover remains the lover, the halo above the speaker’s head almost a thing one can touch. It is not endearing. Instead, it remembers this famous quote by Zora Neale Hurston: “If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.”
VOYAGE comes in three parts: two bookends (a brief and debrief, as it were) and the eponymous middle section. Sprawling seventy-two pages, “Voyage of the Sable Venus” is “a narrative poem comprised solely and entirely of the titles, catalogue entries, and exhibit description of Western art objects in which a black female figure is present, dating from 38,000 BCE to the present.” The list of galleries, museums, and historical societies that Lewis visited for research alone spans three and a half pages, with sites from the University of Michigan Museum of Art to the Egyptian Museum of Cairo.
Reading through “Voyage of the Sable Venus,” the effort put into the redux of already curated work is palpable. Like walking through an actual museum, it takes time to explore it all, at least for me. There are certain passages I read multiple times, like “II.” on pages forty eight through fifty. Each page of “II.” has two columns. On the left, objects (water jar, pointment spoon, two nails); on the right, details (“a Bes and an Isia dancing / back to back,” “with two heads / of black women forming”). There is no punctuation. I read all the objects together, all the details together. I read it top to bottom, left to right.
On page eighty-eight, a piece of something I know, when Lewis writes, “Lone Black Girl on School Bus / in Milwaukee, Wisconsin,” followed by something I know nothing about, “Head of a Girl Wearing an Ornate Head // Dress.” Another grounding passage: on page eighty-nine when Lewis repeats “Moorish” over and over, “Moorish” as a word that I tend not to encounter. Lewis, though, probably knows this and so, transforms it into an incantation:
On their way
To the cemetery
On their way
To a marabout
Moorish Women Taking
A Walk Moorish
Women in Town
Woman in City
Other times, the writing is clear as a brick to the face, as when in “Dick-and-Jane-with-Me Page Spread / The Upper Room II Flipside Shelf” a Black Woman asks, “Mirror, Mirror on the wall, / who’s the finest of them all?” and the Mirror replies, with no preamble, “Snow White / you Black Bitch, / and don’t you forget it.”
In her acknowledgements, Lewis dedicates “Voyage of the Sable Venus” to “the legacy of black librarianship, and black librarians, worldwide.”
The idea of the black slave-owning relatives returns in the last poem of collection “Félicité,” which is dedicated to Lewis’s mother, “and her mother, and hers, ad infinitum.” This time, the speaker is not an “I” addressing an absent “you,” the reader as a stand-in. It is Lewis, or the voice of Lewis. If “Plantation” is the stylized version, the one that is performed, “Félicité” is the one for a diary. Here, the bewilderment, lacking from the first poem, is obvious:
He took great pleasure
in watching black women
hanged inside the Square
to musical accompaniment.
I read this about him once,
then tried to see her,
next to him, fucking him
on her plantation, on top of a pineapple
bed, kissing behind his ears
sharing an alligator
through her cane.
There is disgust. There is loyalty. There is this story that is passed through this blood, in these bodies, generating “this sensation [Lewis has] had for years: / that of another body / hovering inside me / waiting for address.” The woman in question, Marie Panis, is there, inside Lewis. Marie Panis: black woman, wife, slave owner, Lewis’s grandmother a handful of “great”s back. “What can History possibly say?” Lewis writes. She continues:
Sometimes I feel a pride I cannot defend
or explain. Sometimes I smile.
Into the barbed nectar
of this story I have stared
my whole life.
She stares, from black woman to black woman, from venus to venus, ad infinitum.