The Glimpse.
I love that word reckoning. I think it's so appropriate. I kind of shy away from you know, big words like like justice and things like that. But I think you know, reckoning there is a lot of that happening.
Welcome to The Glimpse. I'm your host Camille Rankine John Murillo doesn't shy away from reckoning. John is a poet and a teacher, and has received fellowships from the NEA, Cave Canem, and the New York Foundation for the Arts, among many others. His debut collection "Up Jump the Boogie was a finalist for several awards, and his highly anticipated follow-up collection was released in 2020. John Murillo is our
guest today on The Glimpse. Reading John Murillo's most recent book, Kontemporary Amerikan Poetry, I found myself suspended, or maybe entangled in this complex emotional web. The work is threaded through with considerations of rage, violence and anguish and the forces that create them. But at the same time, there's a delicacy to the poems and a tight control. I felt as if the poems took this question, "What are men capable of?" and held it up to light, examined it under glass through a skillful
musical lyricism. Welcome, John. Thanks for talking with us today.
Thanks for having me.
So I wanted to ask you about that title. Kontemporary Amerikan Poetry. Is this book, that sort of statement on poetics for you?
In a way, in a way it is, you know, there were 10 years between books, and I had a chance to kind of sit off to the side and watch, you know, people writing their books and promoting their books and all this and that. And I think one of the things I was trying to do with the book is to just bring something honest back that I thought was lacking, I thought a lot of what I was seeing and reading, seeing the performative in many ways, and so it is kind of a critique of, and me just
kind of trolling in some ways. But also, if that makes any sense, and also trying to be as authentic as possible at the same time. Yeah,
That's funny. I, I love that use the word trolling. I did feel reading the book so many times. I was like, what are you up to? Like, there was a little bit of a wink? I thought in some of the approaches.
Exactly. Well, I am trolling myself too you know? It's like that. And I think that's really more than anything in those poems. What I'm trying to get at it's, it's kind of a self check. Right?
Yeah, definitely. That that self check, I think is so present throughout the book. And one of the things that I feel like, was just continually complicating the poems I was reading, and I just really loved that element of it so much. So speaking of, I would love for you to read one of the poems from the book if you would oblige us.
Absolutely. Great. And I think I'm reading "On Confessionalism" That's the one yes. Okay. All right. Not sleepwalking. But waking still, with my hand on a gun, and the gun in a mouth and the mouth on the face of a man on his knees. Autumn of '89 and I'm standing in a section eight apartment parking lot pistol cocked, and staring down at this man, then up into the mug of an old woman staring, watering the
single sad flower to the left of her stoop. The flower also staring. My engine idling behind me, a slow moaning bassline and the bark of a dead rapper nudging me on. All to say, someone's brokenhearted. And this man with the gun in his mouth, this man who like me is really little more than a boy may or may not have something to do with it. May or may not have said a thing or two, betrayed a secret, say, that walked my love away. And why not say it: She adored me. And I, her. More than anyone,
anything in life, up to then, and then still, for two decades after. And, therefore, went for broke. Blacked out and woke having gutted my piggy and pawned all my gold to buy what a homeboy said was a Beretta. Blacked out and woke, my hand on a gun, the gun in a mouth, a man who was really
a boy on his knees. And because I loved the girl, I actually paused before I pulled the trigger—once, twice, three times—then panicked not just because the gun jammed, but because what if it hadn't, because who did I almost become, there, that afternoon, in a Section 8 apartment parking lot, pistol cocked, with the sad flower staring, because I knew the girl I loved, no matter how this all played out, would never have me back. Day of damaged ammo, or grime that clogged the
chamber. Day of faulty rods or springs come loose in my fist. Day nobody died, So why not hallelujah? Say amen or Thank you. My mother sang for years of God, babes and fools. My father, lymph node masses fading from his x-rays, said surviving one thing means another comes and kills you. He's dead, and so I trust him. Dead. And so I'd wonder years about the work I left undone—boy on his knees a man now risen,and likely plotting his long way back to me. Fuck it. I tucked my tool like the movie
gangsters do and jumped back in my bucket. Cold enough day to make a young man weep, afternoon when everything, or nothing, changed forever. The dead rapper grunted, the baseline faded, my spirits whispered something from the trees. I left, then lost the pistol in a storm drain somewhere between that life and this. Left the pistol in a storm drain, but never got around to wiping away the prints.
Thank you so much for that.
Thank you.
I love that poem. And it's a long one. It's like it really sustains your interest and pulls you along.
When I'm giving readings, like that's the thing where I feel bad for the listeners often because I write really long poems. And I'm just, you know, hoping that they're paying attention and staying with me the whole time, because you never know.
I want to ask you about the title On Confessionalism. Like why did you choose that title? And? And are you making an argument about confessionalism here?
Yeah, I don't know that I'm consciously making an argument. So one of the things that I was trying to do in the book, at least for myself, really was to think about this space between our, our lived lives and the lives that we show others or rather, our true selves and our performed selves, right. And also the way we perform self to self, right? And the way memory changes over time. So I'm confessing
something in that poem. But also what I'm doing is just playing with memory and fiction in a way we fictionalized memory.
I mean, I think there's some things that you don't want to admit to yourself, even when you're confessing, you know, that's something that it's maybe one of the biggest challenges is there's things that you don't want to open that door even to yourself. So to do it in a confession feels impossible. I feel like that's, that's something that must be occurring as for people as well.
Yeah. All the time, all the time.
So this is the first poem in the book, can you talk about, like why you made the choice to start here?
I didn't want the poems about violence, or let's say police or state sanctioned violence, to take up too much psychic territory, right? I wanted it to still be in conversation with or rather, how do I say about the violences we cause one another, and self. So the first poem that one that I just read, it has to do with violence, but it's more of an interpersonal violence. And I think it helps to set up a voice that I think is really speaking throughout the rest of the poems and
serves as a touchstone. I think that if I would have started with another poem, it would have framed the book differently. And
I thought the ending was really interesting too the way that we have this ending where the prints are still on the gun and that's the image that's kind of where we exit the poem. And it feels like sort of this acknowledgment that there's a chance for this to reverberate still, like this event doesn't is not closed, it's not kind of over, there's still this sort of dangling. And
it's the the prints that are left on the gun, but also the prints in terms of the impression that is left on the speaker. Right. So the speaker is always looking over their shoulder, you know, throughout the rest of their life.
I think that's the impression, it leaves you with that sense that this can still come back to you. It's not a closed door. I think in part because there's a sense of that the reckoning with the event, and it's continuous in the poem, the way we see that revision and, and reframing and re-understanding that reckoning continues kind of throughout.
I love that word reckoning. I think it's so appropriate. I kind of shy away from, you know, big words like, like justice and things like that. But I think, you know, reckoning is a lot of that happening and has been happening for the last several years. You know. And, and maybe this is why so many of us are inauthentic with the selves that we create, is that where we're kind of flinching at the idea of that reckoning
one of the things I was thinking about with this poem in the book as a whole was, there's a lot of exploration of violence and anger, and kind of their entanglement with masculinity as well, which I think is really fraught thing for black and brown people and black brown men. And I wonder, like, is that something that you were consciously navigating as you as you made these poems?
So one of the things that's, that is important to me, and I wasn't writing towards this consciously, are the ways that we've inherited as black and brown men. This this idea that, that masculinity is dependent upon how effective we can enact violence, on others on ourselves, right? I think about my generation, growing up in the 70s and
80s. And the effect of the Vietnam War had on us in that a lot of our fathers were sent out to combat and either did not come back or came back damaged, and left a whole generation of us boys teaching each other how to be men. And a boy's idea of a man is this kind of cartoonish. Hyper, violent, masculine brute, right. And I think a lot of the issues that I
had coming up was what I felt was a shortcoming. My inability to live up to a lot of that, and trying to do my best too So a lot of the things that I've done in my own life, that have brought me the most shame, have really been me, acting out of that sense of wanting to prove myself to some abstract judge of what is masculine, that I too, am a man,
I really liked hearing your thinking through that. I think growing up in this country, it's impossible for violence not to be kind of touching you and forming you in some way.
I think you're absolutely right. And it informs so much by how we interact with one another. And I think one possible response to that is tenderness and care. You know, what I want to think about, like my students, just with, you know, so many of them are going through, and the world that they're inheriting. It just makes me adore them that much more, you know, and the same with friends and family
members. You know, it was such a rough place, that I think, you know, it really calls for more of that care more of that tenderness.
So thinking about this poem, I want to ask one more thing about just like the way that you utilize music and repetition. And I wonder if you could talk about like, how sound plays into the way you make a poem. Yeah.
I think my, my first encounter with poetry was with my ears, not my eyes, you know, I came to poetry not as a reader at first I came as a listener and the the poets I listened to were rappers were MCs and I came to writing as a rapper. So for me sound music has always been really important. And I think you know, Lawrence Ferlinghetti. He once
said that the press Getting press ruined poetry. And one of the things I think he meant by that was that when we started writing for the page, a lot of us lost that sense of the oral and aural pleasures that poetry can give. And I think that when the poems are really working when they're firing on all cylinders, it's part song part cinema, right? So your images are working, but also, you have something that's keeping the
reader or the listener engaged. And so I think that when the poems are really working well, there's no separation, right?
Oh, I think this is a good time for a little break.
We hope you're enjoying The Glimpse. It's just one small part of the Adrian Brinkerhoff Poetry Foundation. We're the founders Peter and Cathy Halstead. Our goal is to make poetry more accessible to everyone. And we do that in a variety of ways. Through partnerships, our film series, this podcast, and our website, Brinkerhoff poetry.org. We hope these works will lure you into a parallel universe. The way a Mobius strip, brings you into another dimension without leaving the page
you're on. Thanks for listening.
OK we're back. So we're gonna talk about a poem that inspires you. Can you tell us which poem you've chosen? Yeah,
so I've chosen this poem by one of my favorite poets Etheridge, Knights. Etheridge Knight is one of my favorite poets. This is not one of my favorite Etheridge Knight poems. But there's something compelling about this. I'll read it and then I'll talk about it. Yeah. Okay. Yeah. So the poem is called "Cop Out Session." I done shot dope, been to jail, swilled wine, ripped off sisters, passed bad checks, changed my name, howled at the moon wrote poems turned back over flips flipped over
backwards. In other words, I've been confused, fucked up scared, phony and jive to a whole lot of people, haven't you? In one way or another? Anybody else want to cop out? So this is a short poem, of his but I think what I find most compelling, he's an uneven poet, right? So some poems are way better than others. At his best, he's really singing. But one of the things that I love about him, in addition to his range, is how honest
he is right? So for your listeners who may not know Etheridge Knight is a poet who served in the Korean War In the war he got a shrapnel wound. And because of the shrapnel wound, developed an addiction to opioids, painkillers. Once he was discharged, he committed a robbery or burglary, I think, trying to feed his addiction, and went to prison. And it
was in prison where he started writing and reading poems. And while he's in prison, he began corresponding with other poets, Gwendolyn Brooks, among them, and you know, he got out and was one of the, I think, most important poets in the tradition. He's known primarily for his prison poems. But he also has some really beautiful love poems. And in that poem, particular, I just love the honesty. He's just putting it all out there, right? I've done this, I've done that I'm a piece of shit,
blah, blah, blah, aren't you? Yeah,
yeah, it definitely it has that again, that self critical gaze. Like we're talking about the idea of reckoning and how how that has to be inward as well as outward. And how people have had a hard time with that. I mean, understandably. And I love what you're saying about that notion of being a good person and how it's like a posture people want to adopt, but don't want to perform.
And even that idea, right, Camille like the idea of a good person, like what does that even mean? We're very complex, right? And the thing that I noticed just in the course of us living our lives, right, becoming who we are going to be like you will hurt people. But I think this idea of when we reduce it to such a binary --good and bad, or good and evil, which is really a juvenile way of looking at things. I think. We do ourselves a disservice as humans and also as literally as as writers,
as a writer, I think it's really important to never exempt yourself from seeing critically and analytically. And yeah, I like that this poem. It's both doing that work. But it also was a confrontation at the end, like, and you your turn.
Yeah. And so, you know, you read a poem like that, and you either take up the challenge or you or you don't, right. But if you're taking it up, honestly, you know, there is some risk involved. Right? You might reveal a self to yourself that is hard to live with. You may lose friends, you may lose institutional support. Right. Yeah. So you know, that's, that's a real thing.
I'm thinking about the way this poem moves too. You know, there's a moment like halfway through, where he kind of distills and kind of reframes what everything above means. In other words, I've been confused, fucked up, scared, phony and jive. It's like, another confession, like another layer of confession that happens there.
Yeah, yeah, absolutely. I think there's something in this moment it's so vulnerable, so raw, there's nothing there's no dressing it up. It's just like, look, this is what what it is. Yeah. And each of those things, right. When you think about, again, this self that we present, how many of us are willing to say that we've been scared? And phony? Right.
So you said this was not your favorite Etheridge Knight poem? Do you have a favorite?
Wow. You know? Yeah, I do actually and I don't know why? Like, that's a hard question. Feeling Fucked up is my favorite Etheridge Knight.
Mine too! I'm obsessed With that poem. It's so good
That poem, I mean, it's so good. And I mean, and to me, it's like when you talk about love poems. That's it right there.
Yeah. So before we wrap up, I want to ask you what, what are you working on right now? Do you have anything in the works?
Oh, man. I've been scribbling badly for the past couple of years. But I did finish a collection of translations Rafael Alberti, his book "Concerning the Angels." So I translated that this past year, and that's coming out in 2025. Nicole and I, we wrapped up the "Dear Yusef" anthology, editing that that's coming out in 2024. But as far as the poems I'm kind of trying to vary my influences, listening to different music, watching different films, reading
different poets, and just seeing what I can glean from them. And just waiting and seeing how it affects the writing and just giving myself time. I hope there's not 10 years between books two and three.
Yeah, well, I'll give you all the grace. You take your time you take your time, John, thank you. Thanks for joining us today. I'm your host Camille Rankine. John's poem "On Confessionalism" from his book. Kontemporary AmeriKan Poetry was aired with permission from Four Way Books. The Etheridge Knight poem Cop Out Session comes from the book The Essential Etheridge Knight copyright 1986 Thanks to the University of Pittsburgh Press for permission to
air it. Coming up next week. Ama Code digs into Bluest Nude, and talks about why Gwendolyn Brooks shows up in some unlikely places in her poetry. Make sure to like and subscribe to The Glimpse wherever you get your podcasts. You can also find episodes on our website Brinkerhoff poetry.org. If you have any questions or comments, please drop us an email at The Glimpse poetry podcast@gmail.com. The Glimpse is a production of the Adrian Brinkerhoff Poetry Foundation. I'm
your host Camille Rankine. Our senior producer is Jennifer Wolfe, Kat Yore is our technical director and mixing engineer, editorial director Amanda Glassman, is our curator and production coordinator. Amy Holmes is the foundation's executive director and our co-founders are Cathy and Peter Halstead thanks for listening