Poor, Caleb Femi — Review.
The first time I read this book I had an immovable smile on my face the whole way through. By the second read, I could not read a single poem without the threat of uncontrollable tears. My emotions proved a more effective reviewer than any complex sentences I would have tried to construct.
Poor embodies realities that I have only dreamt of seeing amplified. Reading it felt as though Femi bottled the culture and spilled it on a page. Although the collection carries an autobiographical sense, there is communion within each verse. Schrodinger’s black especially captures the oneness of living a tentative existence.
“That’s what it feels like to be Black here: like you’re dead & alive at the same time” — Schrodinger’s Black
It would be misguided to perceive Femi’s writing as resentful. If anything it is a celebration of his home, he embraces it for all it has to offer: in beauty and darkness. The relationship between himself and the endz is framed like a grand Shakespearean tragedy and what could be a greater proclamation of love than this?
“Yet I dance the terrible dance of love, surrendering myself to the pulse of street lamps: To die for the dust of your land is purest.” — We Will Not All Fight like Dogs at Our Death
Language is transformed as Femi breaks the barriers of “proper” English and paints the accurate picture down to the dialogue of its speakers. He even teaches the true pronunciation of “Peckham[pek narm]” to the foreign tongue. Language becomes a wider resistance to the impending threat of gentrification and Femi holds onto this resistance
Trauma is a realised presence in much of the collection, every possible side of trauma is explored. That of mothers and brothers, that of friends and strangers, and even the trauma of the casual Twitter scroller. Femi does not shy away from the darkness that comes from grief, especially collective grief like that caused by Grenfell. I could not help but ponder on all of the black bodies I have grieved with strangers and Femi foregrounds the painstaking reality of mourning a loved one.
Just ask the boy who is writing this poem Who feels like death is a party All his friends were invited to but him — Trauma is a Warm Bath
As I write this my initial reaction seems more profound, my love for my home is wedged between permanent smiles and the shadow of tears and Femi writes of the intimate feelings that live there.
Poor is a love letter to the poet’s home and upbringing. And like any real love, Femi neither embellishes nor fabricates, he basks in the flaws of his beloved and finds solace in its constancy. In his own words:
I have never loved anything the way I love the endz.
- We will Not All Fight like Dogs at Our Death
Originally published at http://culturetalkswithkim.wordpress.com on October 31, 2020.
