| Title | : | Duende |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | - |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9781555974756 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 87 |
| Publication | : | First published May 29, 2007 |
| Awards | : | Sister Mariella Gable Prize (2007), James Laughlin Award (2006) |
Pure conflict. Its own undoing.
Breeze of dreams, then certain death.
--from "History"
Duende, that dark and elusive force described by Federico García Lorca, is the creative and ecstatic power an artist seeks to channel from within. It can lead the artist toward revelation, but it must also, Lorca says, accept and even serenade the possibility of death. Tracy K. Smith's bold second poetry collection explores history and the intersections of folk traditions, political resistance, and personal survival. Duende gives passionate testament to suppressed cultures, and allows them to sing.
Duende Reviews
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Tracy K. Smith is the current Poet Laureate of the United States. Earlier this year I read her Pulitzer winning collection Life on Mars, which features eclectic poems that make one think about the current goings on in society. Prior to Life on Mars, Smith had published two other award winning collections of poetry. The second such collection, Duende, gets its inspiration from a Frederico Garcia Lorca poem and play set in Andalusia, Spain. Winning the James Laughlin Award as a top second poetry collection in the United States, with Duende Smith was on her way to becoming the Poet Laureate that she is today.
In Duende, Smith mixes traditional poetry with modern prose. Many of her poems are ripped from the headlines giving her readers much food for thought. September speaks of autumn but also the rubble of buildings on September 11th, ensuring that we do not forget the tragedy that occurred on that day. This poem directly follows The Searchers, which tackles domestic violence, relaying, "He wants to kill her for surviving, for the language she spits, the way she runs, clutching her skirt as if life pools there." In dramatic language, Smith decides if a victim of abuse will either embrace life and live or give into the violence and die. I found this to be one of the most poignant poems in this section, revealing the depth of Smith's work. Additionally, the centerpiece poem of her first section History delves into how the spoils always go to the victors, and the dangers of allowing the "have nots" to overcome their captors.
While the title poem Duende provided many thinking points, I was mesmerized by many of Smith's poems in her third and final section. In I Killed You Because You Didn't Go to School and Had No Future" speaks of the cruelty of murdering a nine year old child in the Rio slums. He was killed by a twisted mind over not having the ambition to learn and desire a better life than the projects in which he lived. This poem caused anguish but not as much as Theft. In one of the two poems taken from current events, Smith details how a seven year old Ho-Chunk Indian has already lived in eight foster homes as part of an attempt to reduce poverty in Native communities. Later, he was haunted by recurring dreams and unsure of his future, as Smith writes, "What are you stupid. And what kind of Indian are you; what kind if you don't know; you must not be." She counters this with, "if my voice is big enough, someone will hear it. It will land where it needs to land. And someone will catch it." This poem moved me and had me hoping that this boy did indeed live a better future than the life he was currently faced with.
Smith follows this tragic poem with more anguish in "Into the Moonless Night." In a ballad, she writes of the teenaged girl victims of the civil war in Uganda. Raped and forced to become mothers and wives at an age far younger than they intended, these girls faced a horrendous life and dismal future. Another poem taken from world issues of the day, Smith gives voice to the victims of war, and hopefully notifies the western world of the continued dangers and tragedies taking place in African nations on an almost daily basis. Girls forgot how to love life, could not bring themselves to love their children of rape, and some became guerrilla fighters themselves. One states, "There was a kind of comfort in the other women. Lost girls surviving by the smallest acts. The ones who lasted were strong..." and counters this with "What time does not heal, it destroys. I beat a rug and my own body stiffens with the memory." Into the Moonless Night could easily be the title poem of this collection and will be the one that tragically stays with me the longest.
As the current Poet Laureate of the United States and a Pulitzer winner, Tracy K Smith is one of the leading writers today. Duende is almost as masterful as Life on Mars and is as deserving of the honors that her award winning collection received. Yet, perhaps Life on Mars is a whisker better in that Smith's work is more surreal as she grapples with science fiction and sets it to poetry. In Duende, Smith's work speaks of death and tragedy and has me thankful for the life that I lead. I can only hope that some of the subjects of the poems here went on to live a happier life as adults, and perhaps one day Smith will revisit these protagonists in a later, brilliant collection.
4+ stars -
"There are ways of naming the wound"
"The point is, you won't necessarily know
Whether you're living a science fiction reality"
In Duende, as in her other poetry collection, Life on Mars, Tracy K Smith explores loss, desire, identity, current events and even science fiction. Both collections share a tone that is darkly meditative and occasionally conversational. In Duende, this dark energy reflects the collection's title. According to Graywolf Press, "Duende, that dark and elusive force described by Federico García Lorca, is the undefinable ability of the artist to channel creative and ecstatic power from within. But it is essential, Lorca says, for duende to include and accept and even serenade death."
That dark energy of desire roils in "Duende":
"Brief believing.
A skirt shimmering with sequins and lies.
And in this night that is not night,
Each word is a wish, each phrase
A shape their bodies ache to fill—
I’m going to braid my hair
Braid many colors into my hair
I’ll put a long braid in my hair
And write your name there"
This energy and an accompanying emptiness is also reflected in "One Man at a Time":
"The world
Is dangerous. Look
What we do to one another,
As if nothing but having
Will sustain us. Not
The having, but the taking.
I want, I want. You,
Then me. The struggle
To give everything away."
In other poems, Smith cites scientific journals or headlines as a point of departure. I'm really appreciating the quality and depth of Smith's poetry. So far, I'd give the nod to Life on Mars, but Duende is recommended as well. -
I've already read this twice. Such beautiful poems. Lyrical but with a punch (my favorite kind of poem).
Duende is a Spanish image of a kind of imp. It is also (according to Google) an element of passion and desire. Lorca has an essay about the duende which I highly recommend and can't begin to summarize. Smith opens her collection with a quote from this essay.
As I said, I have already reread the collection once and want to read it again. I borrowed this copy from the library but I may just have to buy it (unless I'm able to memorize the entire work!).
Anyone who likes poetry at all should read this. And maybe everyone else as well. So clear and concise but also evocative. I often was deeply moved by the content and left breathless by the form. -
Duende plays on this notion (heavily influenced by Federico Garcia Lorca) of the this undefinable quality to call something up from within - this duende is the larger theme of Smith's collection. What really stood out to me was her strong sense of place and setting, and the use of Spanish phrases throughout the pieces.
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This was just beautiful
I listened to the audiobook version read by the author. So worth the listen. -
Smith's work is marked by intelligence, heart, and spiritual questioning. The mix of personal concerns with the larger world appears seamless. I return to this book again and again.
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Last book of 2018—finished with 5 minutes to spare!
There were some real gems in this collection and I look forward to reading more of her work in the future. -
This book self-consciously addresses history writ large. And it is also an engagement with Lorca's "duende" within history -- the presence of death within history, a presence that must be recognized, must be felt to give the individual within history a fuller life. A tragic sense. Smith does that by creating poems out of documents -- making a Greek chorus, for instance, out of a New York Times article on stolen African girls turned into slave brides. In a final poem, "The Nobodies," Smith gives life and personality to the people forgotten during the larger events that shape us. The whole book moves from "History" to "The Nobodies," and it is very moving.
Along the way, Smith makes sure that her own life and her own pain are recognized as part of the process. Perhaps these poems feel a bit safer, as poems even if not as personal statements, but they become part of the picture. Here's the opening of "El Mar":
There was a sea in my marriage.
And air. I sat in the middle
In a tiny house afloat
On night-colored waves.
The current rolled in
From I don't know where.
You get the feel. Perhaps I wasn't as completely drawn is as I was in "Life on Mars,' but it was still a definite moment that focussed my attention on the effort and the voice. -
September
This is the only world:
Our opaque lives. Our secrets. And that’s all.
A streak of Orange, a cloud of smoke unfurls.
The century’s in rubble, so we curl
Around pictures of ourselves, like Russian dolls
Whose bodies within bodies form a world
Free of argument, a makeshift cure
For old-fashioned post-millennial denial.
A lake of fire. A Christ in clouds unfurled.
Knowledge is regret. Regret is pure,
But sometimes what we do with it is small.
We ride the season, married to the world.
I’m the same. Another hollow girl
Whose heart’s a ripe balloon, whose demons call.
I strike a match and exhale. Smoke unfurls.
Our two eyes see in plurals:
What we understand, and what will fail.
They’re both the only world.
A streak of Orange, a cloud of smoke unfurls. -
Tracy K. Smith is so good.
My favorite poems were "Duende," "In Brazil," and "When Zappa Crashes My Family Reunion." -
I need to re-read this to really properly rate it. So it's probably amazing.
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There is a lot of sorrow in this book. Some of the poems are personal, some of them are based on historical (including recent history) events, and some poems I was not able to figure out at all. A good poetical companion to this book might be
Whereas,
Layli Long Soldier also finds inspiration in history.
I didn't know what "duende" meant, so I looked it up: the duende is a house spirit, usually mischievous, and often is associated with heightened emotions, especially suffering. Smith includes an epigraph from Lorca: The duende does not come at all unless he sees that death is possible. The duende must know beforehand that he can serenade death's house and rock those branches we all wear, branches that do not have, will never have, any consolation.
I didn't understand what that meant when I first opened this book, but by the time I was reading the last poem, I understood. Smith has taken "inspiration" from sorrow, poverty, and global atrocities, and she has both delicately and firmly expressed her rage on these pages.
“I Killed You Because You Didn't Go to School and Had No Future”
Note left beside the body of nine-year-old Patricio Hilario, found in a Rio street in 1989
Your voice crashed through the alley
Like a dog with tin cans tied to its tail.
Idiot pranks. At the sight of your swagger
Old women prayed faster, whispered.
Their daughters yelled after you. Little shit.
Delinquent. You couldn’t even read
What we wrote about kids like you. Today
heat wends up the neighbors’ houses
Like fear in reverse. Your uncle
Wears trousers and perspires
Into the seams of his shirt. His only belt
Is full of new holes and nearly circles you twice. -
I hadn't read any poetry for a while, so I thought I'd go to a reliable favorite: Tracy K. Smith. Although Duende didn't connect with me quite like Life on Mars, it is a powerful collection, especially section III, which includes "Into the Moonless Night," about child soldiers and abductees in Uganda, along with several other poems with roots in stories of young people marginalized, abused, and discarded. Even when I felt a little lost among some of the other poems, I still enjoyed Smith's startling turns of phrase and poetic ways of seeing.
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A respite for the Mind.
Her images leap off the page. The voices of her people linger in the heart.
“Trees scratching at the Moon”, the vision of a little boy stolen from his Mother’s home in her poem, Theft. The laborers whose eyes are fixed not on their Future, but Uphill to their Past.
So many beautiful lines in a very slim volume. Worth reading over and over. I’ll be checking out her other works but this one was filled with Duende! -
Loved this book. It didn't quite drop bombs in my head the way Life On Mars did, but it was still quite powerful. The poems are lyrical and sharp, not to mention insightful. A wonderful read.
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A poetry collection that explores the in betweenness of past and future, the metaphysical, is full of longing, nostalgia, and at points melancholic. Each poem had elaborate and captivating lines.
September
This is the only world:
Our opaque lives. Our secrets. And that’s all.
A streak of Orange, a cloud of smoke unfurls.
The century’s in rubble, so we curl
Around pictures of ourselves, like Russian dolls
Whose bodies within bodies form a world
Free of argument, a makeshift cure
For old-fashioned post-millennial denial.
A lake of fire. A Christ in clouds unfurled.
Knowledge is regret. Regret is pure,
But sometimes what we do with it is small.
We ride the season, married to the world.
I’m the same. Another hollow girl
Whose heart’s a ripe balloon, whose demons call.
I strike a match and exhale. Smoke unfurls.
Our two eyes see in plurals:
What we understand, and what will fail.
They’re both the only world.
A streak of Orange, a cloud of smoke unfurls. -
From the collection:
Diego,
Winter is a boa constrictor
Contemplating a goat. Nothing moves,
Save for the river, making its way
Steadily into ice. A state of
consternation.
My limbs settle into stony disuse
In this city full of streetlamps
And unimaginable sweets.
I would rather your misuse, your beard
Smelling of some other woman's
Idle afternoons. Lately, the heart of me
Has grown to resemble a cactus
Whose one flower blooms one night only
Under the whitest,
The most disdainful of moons. -
I love listening to Tracy K. Smith read her poems. I don't get as close a read as they deserve, and as I'd get taking more time with them in print, but it's such a gift to hear such an incredible poet read her work. I'll definitely want to pick this one up in print. By far my favorite poem in this collection was "History", which, like so many of her poems that speak to America's core violence, I believe should be read in every American history class. "History" was also an incredible, though painful, poem to hear out loud.
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her poems always leave me in awe. this is the second collection I've read from Smith and she's such an incredibly powerful and moving poet. I just want to re-read her poems and listen to her read her poetry and just sit mesmorized by her wording, descriptions, and the emotions she evokes in the poems.
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Fantastic.
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Fantastic!
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“Up late, your voice fits my ear like a secret.
But who can hear two things at once?
Errant stars flare, shatter. A whistle, then the indescribable thud
Of an era spilling its matter into the night. Who can say the word love
When everything—everything—pushes back with the promise
To grind itself to dust?
And what if there’s no dignity to what we do,
None at all? If our work—what you see, what I say—is nothing
But a way to kid ourselves into thinking we might last? If trust is just
Another human trick that’ll lick its lips and laugh as it backs away?
Sometimes I think you’re right, wanting to lose everything and wander
Like a blind king. Wanting to squeeze a lifetime between your hands
And press it into a single flimsy frame. Will you take it to your lips
Like the body of a woman, something to love in passing,
Or set it down, free finally, empty as the camera,
Which we all know is just a hollow box, mechanized to obey?
Sometimes I want my heart to beat like yours: from the outside in,
A locket stuffed with faces that refused to be named. For time
To land at my feet like a grenade.”
—
I STILL HAVE TO READ THE BODY’S QUESTION BUT AS OF RIGHT NOW......THIS COLLECTION IS MY ABSOLUTE FAVORITE OF MADAME TRACY K. SMITH’S. CANNOT RECOMMEND IT ENOUGH!!!!!!
I think Duende really highlights something Smith just does SO well in all her work—this connection to the pain of the World as a collective, this tapping into Mankind unflinchingly and steadily, this act of erasing yourself so as to tell the stories of the Earth and its inhabitants with the respect it requires—the respect it’s often begging for. Whether it’s a more personal piece, or an ode to somebody she’s never met, the same amount of intimacy is infused into her words throughout. It’s striking. Even when it’s other people’s voices and worlds that she’s narrating, it feels like she’s cut out the middleman, like there’s no difference between her and you and the subject. A mingling of the selves; we aren’t so different, are we?
I also think it shows that we have a duty to each other. A duty to be angry on behalf of your fellow man, to adore strangers without reserve. A duty to remember that the interconnection of Humanity demands of us that we look at the World through the eyes, bodies, hearts of another. We can’t understand the Universe without first looking to the rest of the Universe’s Children. We are not alone in the world and we never have been—that’s as much a comfort as it is a responsibility.
(I especially love reading the notes section at the end of each book; she puts so much research into her poems. She’s gentle with these stories, even the ugly ones. She takes care of them. Like all good poetry, it’s a window to the soul. And there’s a lesson there, too.) -
Always a question Bigger than itself
Duende by Tracy K Smith
December 13, 2019 by vel veeter Leave a Comment (Edit)
If we’re directly translating the word duende, it comes up something like a “quality of passion and inspiration” and in that sense, a collection of poems is the perfect vehicle express this idea. There’s a secondary definition of a “spirit” which also works. So when I think about these terms, what comes to mind for me is something ineffable and non-representable, in the sense of a kind Lyotard understanding of representation.
So what do you capture then when you write a poem about something completely ineffable?
I think that’s the question that Tracy K Smith is grappling with here in this collection that looks at spaces of family, desire, language, emotion, and other equally ineffable subjects.
”
The earth is dry and they live wanting.
Each with a small reservoir
Of furious music heavy in the throat.
They drag it out and with nails in their feet
Coax the night into being. Brief believing.
A skirt shimmering with sequins and lies.
And in this night that is not night,
Each word is a wish, each phrase
A shape their bodies ache to fill—”
I think this idea of coaxing the night into being, this process, this flow of feeling and force that creates or brings into being something that cannot be fully expressed and understood is where we’re left. I’ve grappling a lot with ideas of impasse and unknowing if reference to both important questions and my understandings of things. I’ve felt recently that world has less and less concrete understanding within it, at the same time that it feels like people are telling me more and more that it does. I feel like there’s a kind of hardstance on every issue we’re being told to make, but there’s something less clear in that space.
Anyway, there’s an audiobook version of this with Smith reading her work and you’d be remiss to find any other version of it but this one. -
Between the poem in this collection titled "When Zappa Crashes My Family Reunion," and the entirety of her follow-up collection "Life on Mars," it is clear that Smith is a poet inspired by music. And that makes sense. Everything she writes has a very lyrical sense to me, the way that sometimes songs don't make sense, but you can feel their meaning. I suppose poetry and music aren't that far apart.
I've read Smith's other work, her two other collections of poetry, her memoir, and am very much looking forward to her forthcoming collection, as well as the operas I hear she has in the works. I love everything that she's done so far. And "Duende" is no exception.
While her debut collection "The Body's Question" appeared to me to be very personal in nature, and her Pulitzer Prize winning collection "Life on Mars," unsurprisingly about the cosmic angst of being human, "Duende" appears to be Smith's most political work. About the sort of existential malaise and social laziness of most individuals international radar. The "out of sight, out of mind" mentality that we all have occasional when told about very hard truths going on in the world. But Smith wants you to face them head on. And while it makes for occasionally difficult reading, she always does so with grace. Her varied style also makes seeing similar ideas never seem boring, always fresh.
When I heard that she had been announced as the 2017 United States Poet Laureate, I was enthused. She is probably my favorite living poet. And after reading this collection, I can't wait to see what she does to raise the national consciousness of poetry reading in the country. I'm sure it will be, like all else she has done, marvelous. -
I Don't Miss It
But sometimes I forget where I am,
Imagine myself inside that life again.
Recalcitrant mornings. Sun perhaps,
Or more likely colorless light
Filtering its way through shapeless cloud.
And when I begin to believe I haven’t left,
The rest comes back. Our couch. My smoke
Climbing the walls while the hours fall.
Straining against the noise of traffic, music,
Anything alive, to catch your key in the door.
And that scamper of feeling in my chest,
As if the day, the night, wherever it is
I am by then, has been only a whir
Of something other than waiting.
We hear so much about what love feels like.
Right now, today, with the rain outside,
And leaves that want as much as I do to believe
In May, in seasons that come when called,
It’s impossible not to want
To walk into the next room and let you
Run your hands down the sides of my legs,
Knowing perfectly well what they know. -
There are a couple poems that I loved ("In Brazil" and "The Nobodies"). Most of them, though, lacked contextual clues in the poems to give me an entry point, a basis upon which to relate. Perhaps there was an intent on Smith's part, but neither did I read anything to suggest a reason to "otherize" the reader (or a particular kind of reader). Instead, such poem either seem to be obtusely ambiguous or to be an "inside" poem between friends. I really wanted to enjoy these poems more because she does have a style and range of subjects that I tend to gravitate towards. I like it enough to want to check out more of her work to see if there might be something else she's written that resonates more with me.
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I love
Tracy K. Smith’s poetry. This book, her second, was not my favorite—unlike
Wade in the Water: Poems (my very favorite) and
Life on Mars, it felt a little less personal, and as a result didn’t quite stab my heart the way those other two volumes did. But there are still some great poems and even greater lines here.
