International Gay & Lesbian Review

Last Rights

• Fiction: Poetry
• Publisher: Consortium Book Sales & Distribution
• Publication Date: 1999

There's no denying that well-written poetry feeds the spirit. Beautifully composed words can rise up from the page like the scent of freshly baked sweet potato pie, its aroma causing the brain to beg for more. Luckily, there exist a number of poets writing today whose words hold a delicious power (Lucille Clifton and Nikki Gionvanni spring to mind), words that make you want to lick your fingers after the ruffling leaves of the book have been closed. One such poet who harkens to be a part of this finger-licking-good clan is Marvin K. White. In his recently released collection of poems entitled “Last Rights” (published by Alyson Publications with work drawn from numerous anthologies), White testifies to the reader about the beautiful, and ugly, lessons he has endured simply by being a black, gay man in the U.S. His book reads like a poetic sermon, one that bubbles with the hot fire of redemption. Though this collection occassionally seems to lose its spark, within moments, the fire is reignited and his tasty words boil over once more. Broken into four sections, “Last Rights” groups together poems which share, for the most part, common themes: grouping one, “Last Rights” deals largely with a landscape scarred by AIDS; “Our Son” details issues of family and race; the “Rituals” encompassing the third grouping stoke the fires of sexuality; and “Glory” stitches up the collection, incorporating themes from the first three groupings. In this way, the book offers a poetic exploration of a whole,this particular whole being the current black gay male experience. White comes out, with sass flying, in the collection's first poem, “Last Rights,” he preaches:

when I first learned of gregory's death
I cried silently
but at the funeral
giiiiirl I'm telling you
I rocked miss church

And rock he does, falling at the knees of gregory's mother, shouting, “help me, jesus, help me,” causing a choir member to shout out “work it girl,/wooooork it.” The use of call-and-response so important to the structure of black churches is not left to imaginings. White crafts it into the poem, bringing us there, so that we can practically see the choir member(undoubtedly another man looking to rock miss church as well) snapping his fingers during the encounter. In “Kevin the Faggot,” White tells of the little boy on the block, the boy fond of digging through the pockets of uncles for “change or other treats,” the “double dutch champ” who keeps house better than any of the women in town. It is upon this boy that White places the fate of far too many black faggots, a fate witnessed this time by an elderly female neighborhood confidante, the “you” to whom the poem is addressed. After receiving a call from a social worker, “you” walk into a hospital room to see, instead of the boy you remember:

with a 40 oz. of o.e.
and no dreams
and all smiles

A man upon a respirator, “eyes parted and glazed.” It is this Kevin, this everyboy you know who
died a week ago thursday
without a fight left
in his hospital gown.

It is moments such as these, captured so meticulously within White's gaze, that sting of truth. The reader not only hears the whirr of Kevin's respirator but hears the ensuing silence when the machine pulses the last time. White's words fight for Kevin in ways Kevin no longer can. Such intimate observations weave their way into the collection's second grouping, as the issues of race and family undergo microscopic treatment. “What You Mixed With” steps up to the color line that is destructive to the American experience, to gaze at the not-to-distant past that labelled black men and women: spade and jigaboo negro and mulatto spear chucker and porch monkey

White sees he has inherited a history he yearns to understand:

I am empty for something
that happened to my great
great great great grandmama
and I don't even know
what it is
but it hurts
down deep
like I aint ate in weeks
some misdirected curse
that come to me maybe
because I like men

Is White saying here that being gay creates an empty feeling? The answer remains unclear. (Hopefully he isn't saying such, as a perusal of personal ads show that men who like women seem to feel pretty empty as well.) Even so, by connecting his loneliness with that of a female relative, he pinpoints a lineage of displaced people who still struggle to find fulfillment. In “Rooms Big Enough to Grow Into,” he proclaims: I must remember not to forget that my sister called me a faggot before I called myself one It's a very important memory, this outside naming of himself, one he later embraces. It is a memory as important as those memories which are woven into “for colored boys who have considered s-curls when the hot comb was not enough.” The ones which have helped to establish his identity:

civil war
freedom now
kumbaya
slyvias
live aid
cash the check…
forty acres and a mule…
we interrupt this…
we shall overcome…
whose got his own…
was blind and now I see…

Here, the many layerings of race are brought to life with a simple listing of words and phrases, each tied to a person, a place, a movement. With a voice that seems to be standing in the room with you at this point, preaching while you read, White's poetry is comfort food. But when the poems encompassed grouping three's “Rituals” begin to detail sex and erotica, the voice surprisingly looses some spice.

“Weekend Getaway” has White recall an encounter wherein his partner
asked me to rub his feet
his voice was soft but certain
his skin much lighter than mine

While undeniably sensual, the poem lacks the fire that heated the collection's first half. There are exceptions within this grouping, most notably “False Positives,” a smartly composed series of competing hopes and realities.
he looks and acts straight
so do you
he is
you're not

Here, the voice remains rock solid. Hard. Edgy.
But in too many of this grouping's poems, the voice is geared less to a community and directed more at an individual. Most of this section's poems are written to, or for, specific people, which may explain the distance. They become sermons, not for the whole congregation, but for one member. This problem is quickly resolved in grouping four, “Glory.” In “The Glory of the Coming,” that sassy, inclusive preacher is back, as White asks:

have you ever unfolded the legs of a buddha
and then demanded
to be showered
with enlightenment

Once again, White's lyrical skills crackle with heat. And in “When I Say No, I Feel Guilty,” the sass hits a fever pitch, as White proclaims he likes to say yes during sex because:

it means
bring it home boy
and it means luther
where is my luther tape.

Here, erotica and sass intertwine, each one highlighting the beauty of the other. By the closing moments of last rights we are shown how our spirits can glow because of poetry. White knows intuitively, as all good poets do, that poems carry messages. It is a poet's duty to isolate words that speak volumes and in this task, White more than succeeds. After all, the gift of poetry, the reason it speaks to us so joyously, is summed up brilliantly in his closing poem “And Your Names Poetry.” Poetry flames so deliciously within our spirits because:

we are poetry
and we are poetry
and we are poetry

Work it, Markin K. White. Wooooork it.

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