Transcript: Poems on Air, Episode 50 - Patricia Smith

The following transcript is provided for accessibility only. Layout, formatting, and typography of poems may differ from the original text. We recommend referring to the original, published works when possible to experience the poems as intended by their authors.

[Music intro]

LYNNE THOMPSON: Hello! My name is Lynne Thompson, Poet Laureate for the City of Los Angeles and I’m so happy to welcome listeners to this installment of Poems on Air, a podcast supported by the Los Angeles Public Library. Every week, I’ll present the work of poets I admire, poets who you should know, and poets who have made a substantial and inimitable contribution to the art and craft of poetry.

LYNNE THOMPSON: The month of March is designated as Woman’s History Month and women’s accomplishments are rightly celebrated by The Library of Congress, National Endowment for the Humanities, National Gallery of Art, among others. Poems on Air is taking the opportunity to celebrate those poets whose work and example has served as inspiration and influence on my own work. Patricia Smith, who I’m proud to call friend, is an acclaimed poet whose awards include the Kingsley Tufts Poetry Prize, an NAACP Image Award, and in 2021 the Ruth Lilly Prize from the Poetry Foundation, among others. Smith is the author of eight collections of poetry, most recently Incendiary Art.

LYNNE THOMPSON: Today’s poem is "Thankful" by Patricia Smith.

Thankful

“What I’m hearing is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so
	overwhelmed by the hospitality...And so many of the people in the
	arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this—this
	[chuckle lightly] is working very well for them.”

               	—Barbara Bush, touring a hurricane relief center in Houston


Our mothers once crafted banquets
from chicken necks, or that part of a hog’s belly,
whatever it was, that dragged low in its shit.
They decorated mirrored shadowboxes
with chipped porcelain nothing-at-alls,
jelly glasses, or white dolls stunned in their gingham.
		
They tossed threadbare throws over sunken divans
quickly flicking the slower roaches away
and insisting that you sit down, sit down.
Offering up a smudged glass of faucet water
or grape Kool-Aid stiff with balanced sugar,
they went on and on about mustard vs. collards,
church hats, press curls, insurance books and,
of course, Reverend Adam’s stuck-up new lady friend.
Hearing squeals, they rushed to dust-crusted windows
and saw brick kissing brick, watched us poppin’
our little hips to hot rhymes, grinding thin knees
into glass and concrete, bleeding with play.
Stop playin’ with them boys, girl, and put that sweater on!

God only knew where their men were.
Rumor had it they were sucked into factories
and so hollowed by whistle time
that even a woman’s blue crave,
even the promise of some marbled meat
drowned in pepper sauce and sliced turnip,
couldn’t lure them back home.

Our mamas daily squawked hallelujahs
toward scarred walls, conjured about suppers
of sweet fried bread and fat, longed for missing men,
cursed crafty rodents sickening duets behind the stove.
What fools they were to think it golden.
Thank you for the ice eye, the impish giggle,
for reminding all our mothers to be damned.

LYNNE THOMPSON: The Los Angeles Poet Laureate was created as a joint program between the City’s Department of Cultural Affairs and the Los Angeles Public Library and this podcast is available wherever you get your podcasts. Thanks for listening!

[Music outro]

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    • DISCLAIMER: This is NOT a certified or verbatim transcript, but rather represents only the context of the class or meeting, subject to the inherent limitations of real-time captioning. The primary focus of real-time captioning is general communication access and as such this document is not suitable, acceptable, nor is it intended for use in any type of legal proceeding. Transcript provided by the author.

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