Quincy Troupe photo: Rohan Preston
Quincy Troupe
Poems
Quincy Troupe is the author of 20 books, including 10 volumes of poetry and three children’s books. His awards include the Paterson Award for Sustained Literary Achievement, the Milt Kessler Poetry Award, three American Book Awards, the 2014 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Award and a 2014 Lifetime Achievement Award from Furious Flower. His writings have been translated into over 30 languages. Troupe’s latest book of poems is Errançities (2012). Forthcoming two new books of poems, Seduction and a book length poem entitled, Ghost voices, to be published in late Fall 2018 by Tri-Quarterly Northwestern University Press. He is also writing a novel, The Legacy of Charlie Footman; a memoir, The Accordion Years; and an untitled book of non-fiction prose. Mr. Troupe is co-author with Miles Davis of Miles: the Autobiography; Earl the Pearl with Earl Monroe; The Pursuit of Happyness, with Chris Gardner. He is the editor of James Baldwin: The legacy and co-editor (with Rainer Schulte) of Giant Talk; An Anthology of Third World Literature. Troupe is also the author of Miles and me, a memoir of his friendship with Miles Davis, Stories Press, and is scheduled to go into production in late 2018 as a major motion picture, for which Troupe wrote the screenplay. Quincy Troupe is Professor Emeritus from the University of California, San Diego. He edits Black Renaissance Noire a literary and culture journal published by the Institute of African American Affairs at New York University. He lives in Harlem (New York) with his wife, Margaret Porter Troupe.
To listen to Quincy Troupe read his poems, please click on the audio player that appears above each text.
An Art of Lost Faith
for Robert Farris Thompson, Maya Deren & Ishmael Reed
Beginnings: A Place of Silence
in a place beyond our knowing, silence reigns, darkness
perhaps, some light, echoes, in this vast space,
perhaps it is a nether-world, an ether-world of maybe,
if spirits amongst us know what It is, they have never spoken,
perhaps shadows have, over/underground in some invisible space,
surrounded by air, water, where spirits of creation exist,
swimming or zooming outside our comprehension,
a place where only imagination through prayer can take us,
to a road, perhaps, a passageway stretching long & far,
deep into the past, perhaps, a doorway leading to nowhere,
nobody knows, only silence knows the language echoes speak
in this vast place beyond knowing, are bones, teeth, hair,
ribcages, skulls, toes, fingers here, are maggots here, too,
do they speak some kind of music in this beyond world,
do they understand silence, the twilight world of myth, memory
of water, earth, sky, wind, the memory of fire, earthquakes, thunder,
the memory of storms, lightning, ice, the memory of creation,
birth, death, the memory of everything here & gone, everywhere
a mystery, is what we know is certain, an idea of something
without shape or form, pulsating with what we know is power,
It is a metaphysical presence, a blessing with what we know
is the ability to heal & destroy this space we live in
only by Its invitation, sanction, only by Its blessing,
this place we’ve been born into with so much amnesia
Errançities Coffee House Press 2012
When Time Was Young
in the beginning no one knew what the beginning was
what force act what mad genius pulled the trigger
shooting time into space was a commencement an inauguration
all of this was in fact true was an installation a swearing in drama
& time in the opening act was perhaps dressed up as a bird
was all in feathers & flew where nobody had a clue
though all unheard voices from then say it became
a silent language when anything open tried to breathe
attempting to speak a blue cloud whispered a pulse of hushed
utterance slipped out became a new-fangled mode of communication
only circling hawks understood the frequency of before time did
a boogie-woogie shuffled folded its wings dove back down
into the dazzling hole it flew out of in the first place as a breeze-
licked petal trembled as though it was an unmanned boat
floating on still waters of a lake somewhere under the sun
& it was bright before anyone knew the beginning of sound
was time light a short period measured by intervals
a second a slice a beat in the duration of speed & space
though some segments had no sense of rhythm were caught up in blind
spots gaps in the yah-de-yah-da power of crows who were colophons
fixed somewhere in memory perched high up in cerulean air
where some were seen blowing smoke signals through large beaks
like etchings of black men wearing headdresses of indian feathers
when this poem flashed forward to see
mardi gras flowing magical scenes through old new orleans streets
before katrina came sweeping everything away in loop de loops
of wind rain violent swirling water the stupidity of avaricious men
silencing for a while all that wondrous music african-indian tribes created
dancing strutting up a storm through heo-hoodoo beats of new orleans
then the storms of amnesia tore up the original roadmap
& we found ourselves navigating inside our own frazzled brains
now some of us find our spirits wandering around tasting cobalt
chemicals on our tongues sluicing through our minds
as time pulsed beats between two sapphire stones
at opposite ends of the world we bore witness before a black
swirling cloud dropped down howling from the yellow sky
it was the moment some of us finally knew the beginning of time
was the vanishing of light fleeing gloom of those days without heartbeats
& we never understood why we never heard the trembling whisper before
the howling raised at that precise moment of our terror why no one knew
the truth of light leaving was in fact the beginning of all
the silence of all the dark days that were poised to come
Errançities Coffee House Press 2012
II. First Take
from my terrace in goyave, guadeloupe,
eye listen,
sea waves washing whispering lullabies
voices combing through sand,
licking with lapping finger tongues
over a script lost
and secret coded utterances sigh,
eye am hearing
wailing journeys crawling across time,
crawling on shore
here in guadeloupe,
this volcanic butterfly island
rising
from the dark howling bottom
where translucent spirits
cover their black holes for eyes
diffuse their hands,
speak through silence,
what they saw blew out
the lights of their sights
400 years back
listen now
hear them speak
lost rhythms
scripted in the skins of talking drums,
hear them speak,
hear the wailing,
catterwalling language spoken
through pulsating glissandos
eye hear them
throbbing, calling in my dreams
you hear them calling
you hear them too,
with their catterwalling voices
speaking directly in our chambers
speaking directly to you
Ghost voices, forthcoming Fall 2018 by Tri-Quarterly Northwestern University Press
III. Arrival of Ghost Voices
in the dead of night
ghost voices come,
surround me
in sleep
hold nothing
back from the cocked ears of slumber
sharp as the blade
paring sweetness
slicing through
the blush of a mango’s skin
what the palate and memory evoke,
those voices
with their severed tongues
castrated from FREEDOM
the passage of pitched voices
hoarse from the salt water
crossing
those voices wailing like glowing ghost-hyenas,
the skin in the translucent piranhas
still searching for flesh somewhere
my dreams are a fever
sacred chants and dancing priests,
the red-eyed witchdoctors
know secrets
know the underworld of death
they will serve this potion
Voodoo white flower
to the disbelievers
turn them into zombies
eye hear the arrival of those
raised holy voices hear them
riding backs of african ghost spirit crabs
they have arrived
here in my dreams,
eye am listening,
hearing their siren calls
eye am listening
prayer seduces in the night,
eye am listening, hearing your spirit
voices rising from the sea,
the wing of a beautiful butterfly
shaped like this island,
this place where ancestors are kept,
voices in whirlpools eddying
flowing on shores curled like lovers,
riffing in my heart,
eye hear them
howling through the crossing
inside polished bones with their
wind and tongues beseeching
those who survived,
in the new born america,
scaffolded from within
words from skin-wombs of talking drums
they came through the door of no return
the reaper took them down
to swim inside battalions
sweeping west,
just below the terrace
where eye am lost in dreaming
listen, listen closely now
the skin of the drums
fly on wings of tongues
washed ashore seeking redemption,
sulfur whispers, winding themselves
around faith like an octopus with gold tentacles
inside rivers of blood-fingers
like birds on the wind
there is a rhythm
there, where death even has a rhythm
when sharks guillotine the necks,
hear kinfolk screaming in saltwater
listen now to the catterwalling history
in the scaffolding litany of sacred voices,
beseeching sea waves of gospels,
listen to the voices swirling out of
these watery litanies foaming
hear what they say, listen,
listen closely to what they say
Ghost voices, forthcoming Fall 2018 by Tri-Quarterly Northwestern University Press
Ghost Voices Whispering from the Near Past
they call from the near past whispering.
seducing through ether, they call
fragmented, disembodied, their meaning
climbing from silence,
shapes emerge transparent,
seek a form to enter
our bloody world, sluicing through space,
silhouettes looking like amoebas
they float into our vision blooming flowers,
voices whispering at the edge of our ears
Seduction, forthcoming Fall 2018 by Tri-Quarterly Northwestern University Press
Waves
around the north shore of hilo, hawaii, ghost waves
rise up scary from the bottom floor of the pacific,
shaped like finger-tongues they snatch people sitting
unaware on cliffs, dreaming, kissing, living in the moment,
then drag them down screaming into foaming ghost waves,
drop their bodies into the raging deep blue water below
some are never seen again, though people still there living,
raise their voices in prayer, thread them through ether,
breathing words, sentences, construct a memory of these
lost faces survivors throw back & forth across dinner tables,
if the lost could speak of those waves now inside this poem,
how would they describe the terror suddenly upon them,
premonitions all of us think of but never expect to see
Seduction, forthcoming Fall 2018 by Tri-Quarterly Northwestern University Press
Mercy
mercy for broken wing birds
young or old, sitting alone
pathetic on frozen ground,
looking, longing to fly up,
sing in green trees, warm blue skies,
mercy for homeless people,
scavenging like hungry dogs
through garbage, sleeping on streets
in cold, remorseless cities,
with no love in their future,
mercy for those killed in wars
for rich old men at death’s door,
their young wives wearing jewelry,
bemused looks on their faces,
waiting for money to drop,
mercy for cold assassins
killing for religion, gold,
dogma, beliefs of others
who walk around in shadows,
give orders to spineless men,
mercy for plants, animals,
fish in seas suffocating
because of the greed of men,
their willful blindness to death
piling up all around them,
mercy to sick predators
hunting young children, women
singled out for rape, murder,
who hate all without blue eyes,
people who don’t think like them,
mercy for those who refuse
to believe art is healing,
whether poetry, music,
dance, visual images,
the bonds of sweet human-hood,,
mercy for those who refuse
too know beauty is soothing
as love is pure energy,
beautiful beyond glory,
liberating hearts & souls,
when it – love – is alchemy,
a driving force fusing me
& you – our bodies as one
another, heat rising hot,
aretha’s echoing voice
is mercy, mercy, mercy
Seduction, forthcoming Fall 2018 by Tri-Quarterly Northwestern University Press
High Noon Shadow
eye looked in wonder as my shadow inked concrete
behind me, it softened, then hardened its black shape
as if it were an amoeba trailing my footsteps
through the hot summer day filled with gaggles of people
at high noon in manhattan, eye listened to a sprinkling
of voices ricocheting around, airing intentions
murderous as mamba snakes, they troubled me deep down
inside my secret dreams, where eye often feel isolated
as my shadow snaking behind me, wavering over concrete
Seduction, forthcoming Fall 2018 by Tri-Quarterly Northwestern University Press
A Dirge for Michael Brown, Tamir Rice & Trayvon Martin
where does life-force of breath go after flesh falls away from bone,
does it rest in the womb of memory, raise up it’s spirit inside
ghost voices recognized once as bodies carrying names of michael,
tamir, trayvon, so many other young black boys & girls with bright eyes,
looking into a future of dreams before being cut down by spiting lead,
fired into their spirits carrying their names in ferguson, cleveland,
chicago, florida, where do their spirits go after breath leaves them
suddenly beyond hearing love from their mother’s & father’s voices,
brothers & sisters too quaking grief, close friends,
do they hear music now, a trumpet lick sweet as a sad kiss,
wailing over piano keys tickling lyrical disbelief, rain falling
on days when mallet drum beats echo footsteps soft as memory
when a trumpet voice hauntingly pierces flights of mourning’s
gloomy light, bird wings slicing through sadness of the day,
bass strings echoing echos, beneath dark aching words of a poet’s voice
raising up names of so many robbed of futures by spitting bullets
stamped with their names, spitting bullets shrieking like hornets, stamped with their names,
where will all this death take us beyond tears, weeping music, poetry
moaning words of a st.louie woman, how long will memory remember this fear,
these lost names stamped on faces of paper posters
nailed to trees, walls in soiled rooms splattered with blood
inside mourning houses for years carrying memories of young black faces
with sweet smiles, eyes bright as suns staring into a future
once possible with dreams, lost in an instant after death
fired from demons walking still amongst us now enter their brains,
how long will we keep these spirits warm with love inside our hearts,
before amnesia’s modern embrace obliterates time entombing
so many celebrated as martyrs now, yes, black lives do matter,
have always mattered here & now, each & every day,
every second, minute, every hour, yes, black lives do matter, alive
have always mattered, breathing, magical, beautiful, alive,
living does matter for those who know meaning lives here
when lungs take in breath, makes us whole, creative, does matter
when air is sweet beneath the sun, wondrous, magical as music, poetry,
yes, black lives do matter, all life matters every day light rises
with the sun, when we welcome the moon, shadows
wavering like wind-breath singing through leaves of trees swelling
with symphonies, voices, beautiful, powerful as choruses of blues
tonguing insinuation aching with puns, humor
drawn from black lives, inside songs, yes, black lives do matter
each day the sun blooms a trumpet voice within the coal skin of night,
where the moon shines in the eyes & mouth of a black child smiling
every moment in a trumpet voice piercing as the sun & moon
rising , breathing inside lungs inhaling, exhaling, the miracle
that is life, rising, falling, like pitches of music swelling with breath,
with beauty, black people breathing in the here & now every second,
every day, yes black lives do matter, living in a trumpet’s voice,
will always matter, singing in the air, will always matter
beautiful as we are, will always matter, breathing in this life
will always matter, yes, always, always, always
Seduction, forthcoming Fall 2018 by Tri-Quarterly Northwestern University Press
Lyric Still Life; Once again for Margaret
love, hand me flower petals of your laughter
shimmering as a school of silver fish
swimming fast just beneath the clear surface
in an ice cold lake, somewhere deep in memory,
during the thaw of springtime, early morning
rinse, where no waves moved across the surface
but the silent air hung inside a misting veil
full of fragile dewdrops, just before the sun rises
splendid over the rims of mountain tops
fencing in the lake, trees sprouting in the east,
your face appeared wondrous as a sunrise
in the image of a photo above your name
Seduction, forthcoming Fall 2018 by Tri-Quarterly Northwestern University Press
Additional Titles By Quincy Troupe
