Etheridge Knight, photo credit: Univ. of Pittsburgh Press

Behind the Beat Look is a Sweet
Tongue and a Boogie Foot
(for those who see me as a tragic figure)

There is glee in my teeth, and mirth in my mouth.
My birth under the Mississippi sun so a boast,
A toast to my Black Daddy, Gandy-dancer, Master of the
Buck and Wing.  The Skin and Grin.

But what you see might not be what you get.

Etheridge Knight, The Worcester Review, XIX, 1998, p. 131

A brief biography of Etheridge Knight (1931-1991), including his ties to Worcester, was written and published by David Shaw as part of an interactive student project. The biography is available here.

A more comprehensive look at Etheridge Knight is featured in The Worcester Review, Vol XIX 1&2 (1998) including his years in Worcester.  The introduction by Editor Rodger Martin also lays out how his military record can not answer the question of Korean War service one way or another because a Vietnam War protest fire set at the Army Record Center in St. Louis destroyed significant portions of Knight’s military record.

In September 2018, the WCPA honored Knight by renaming the performance portion of the WCPA’s Annual College Poetry Contest. The “Etheridge Knight Performance Prize” is awarded to a single individual each year and includes a cash prize. College and universities in central Massachusetts chose a participant to represent the school at the event. Craig Blais of Anna Maria College is chairing the contest again this year.

Visit the Poetry Foundation page for Etheridge Knight

Worcester Telegram article regarding a local reading of Knight’s work.

Stanley Kunitz in his Provincetown garden. Photo by James Laughlin

The Testing Tree

1

On my way home from school
  up tribal Providence Hill
     past the Academy ballpark
where I could never hope to play
  I scuffed in the drainage ditch
     among the sodden seethe of leaves
hunting for perfect stones
  rolled out of glacial time
     into my pitcher’s hand;
then sprinted lickety-
  split on my magic Keds
     from a crouching start,
scarcely touching the ground
  with my flying skin
     as I poured it on
for the prize of the mastery
  over that stretch of road,
     with no one no where to deny
when I flung myself down
  that on the given course
     I was the world’s fastest human.  
     
       2

Around the bend
  that tried to loop me home
     dawdling came natural
across a nettled field
  riddled with rabbit-life
     where the bees sank sugar-wells
in the trunks of the maples
  and a stringy old lilac
     more than two stories tall
blazing with mildew
  remembered a door in the
     long teeth of the woods.
All of it happened slow:
  brushing the stickseed off,
     wading through jewelweed
strangled by angel’s hair,
  spotting the print of the deer
     and the red fox’s scats.
Once I owned the key
  to an umbrageous trail
     thickened with mosses
where flickering presences
  gave me right of passage
     as I followed in the steps
of straight-backed Massassoit
  soundlessly heel-and-toe
     practicing my Indian walk.
     
       3

Past the abandoned quarry
  where the pale sun bobbed
     in the sump of the granite,
past copperhead ledge,
  where the ferns gave foothold,
     I walked, deliberate,
on to the clearing,
  with the stones in my pocket
     changing to oracles
and my coiled ear tuned
  to the slightest leaf-stir.
     I had kept my appointment.
There I stood int he shadow,
  at fifty measured paces,
     of the inexhaustible oak,
tyrant and target,
  Jehovah of acorns,
     watchtower of the thunders,
that locked King Philip’s War
  in its annulated core
     under the cut of my name.
Father wherever you are
   I have only three throws
      bless my good right arm.
In the haze of afternoon,
  while the air flowed saffron,
     I played my game for keeps—
for love, for poetry,
  and for eternal life—
     after the trials of summer.
     
     4

In the recurring dream
  my mother stands
     in her bridal gown
under the burning lilac,
  with Bernard Shaw and Bertie
     Russell kissing her hands;
the house behind her is in ruins;
  she is wearing an owl’s face
     and makes barking noises.
Her minatory finger points.
  I pass through the cardboard doorway
     askew in the field
and peer down a well
  where an albino walrus huffs.
     He has the gentlest eyes.
If the dirt keeps sifting in,
  staining the water yellow,
     why should I be blamed?
Never try to explain.
  That single Model A
     sputtering up the grade
unfurled a highway behind
  where the tanks maneuver,
     revolving their turrets.
In a murderous time
  the heart breaks and breaks
     and lives by breaking.
It is necessary to go
  through dark and deeper dark
     and not to turn.
I am looking for the trail.
  Where is my testing-tree?
     Give me back my stones!

by Stanley Kunitz, read at The Higgins House, Worcester Polytechnic Institute, 1972

Stanley Kunitz (1905-2006), twice named Poet Laureate of The United States, was born in Worcester in 1905 and has become one of the most celebrated poets in the United States.  He once said, “Worcester provoked me into poetry.”  Regardless, we can savor the brilliant work those provocations created.   His childhood home is a poetry mecca for poetry lovers over the world.     

He has been featured numerous times in The Worcester Review and the WCPA has honored him first as one of the initial poets invited to read at its founding in 1971 and with many celebrations since.

Learn more about Stanley Kunitz by visiting the following sites:

Stanley Kunitz Boyhood Home

The Poetry Foundation Stanley Kunitz Page

Stanley Kunitz on Wikipedia

Literary Landmark: Boyhood Home of Stanley Kunitz

the Paris Review interview with Stanley Kunitz

Stanley Kunitz Obituary in the New York Times

Poetry Everywhere with Garrison Keillor on PBS “Touch Me” by Stanley Kunitz