Wicked Enchantment. Wanda Coleman
An interview,” page 77
My parents were petit bourgeoisie. My mother was a domestic—she came to California from Oklahoma when World War II started and jobs opened up for Blacks here. She worked in movie stars’ homes, and in fact worked a year for Ronald Reagan when he was married to Jane Wyman—she quit when he wouldn’t give her a raise! [Laughs.]
“Looking for It: An Interview,” page 91
My anger knows no bounds—it’s unlimited. I’m a big lady, I can stand up in front of almost any man and cuss him out and have no fear—you know what I’m sayin’? Because I will go to blows.
“Looking for It: An Interview,” page 93
I’m not about shock; if any shock is present it’s the shock of recognition . . . or the shock of understanding . . . But I’m not deliberately out to just shock people. I’m not about being sensationalistic . . . I want freedom when I write, I want the freedom to use any kind of language—whatever I feel is appropriate to get the point across.
“Coulda Shoulda Woulda: A Song Flung Up to Heaven by Maya Angelou,” page 137
I vented my bias against celebrity autobiographies at the outset of a favorable review of Angelou’s All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes (book review, August 13, 1986), in which I stated that I usually find them “self-aggrandizements and/or flushed-out elaborations of scanty press packets.” Relieved, I summarized Shoes as “a thoroughly enjoyable segment from the life of a celebrity!” No can do with Song.
“Black on Black: Fear & Reviewing in Los Angeles,” page 141
The night of the NBA [National Book Award] ceremony, it felt strange to hear my name (I was poetry finalist) called out from the podium by Steve Martin . . . I had devoted my best writing life to the financial wasteland of poetry, working pink-collar jobs to feed my children . . .
“Dancer on a Blade: Deep Talk, Revisions & Reconsiderations,” page 171
There are moments when I’m inclined to believe that trying to define poetry is as fruitless as trying to define love. It simply can’t be gotten right.
“Dancer on a Blade: Deep Talk, Revision & Reconsiderations,” page 180
My memory of the specifics is vague, but in 1972 I attended Diane Wakoski’s poetry workshop at California Technical Institute in Pasadena. I had met John Martin, the publisher of Black Sparrow Press, in March of that year, and he had strongly recommended I study with his “superstar” poet, author of Motorcycle Betrayal Poems . . . Diane Wakoski took me steps further toward enlightenment, as I kicked and ranted unable to fully articulate my point of view, stubborn in my stance but absorbing as much information as she could supply . . . Not least of the benefits of participating in Wakowski’s workshop was my friendship with poet Sylvia Rosen.
“Dancer on a Blade: Deep Talk, Revision & Reconsiderations,” page 205
Buying books was a great luxury in those days. What I couldn’t borrow and return or obtain from the public library, I read straight off bookstore shelves.
“Dancer on a Blade: Deep Talk, Revision & Reconsiderations,” page 206
I dared and mailed my painfully retyped manuscript to Black Sparrow Press. In March 1972, the manuscript was returned. Responding to my eagerness to learn, publisher John Martin steered me first to Wakoski and months later, to Clayton Eshleman. In the meantime I had become a Bukowski fan, trying to imitate his style, going to his readings, and hanging out at the infamous Bukowski parties . . . But it didn’t take too long to realize that my approach to language was, at root, radically different from Bukowski’s . . . Bukowski was tone deaf. And I loved the musical lyricism of writers like Neruda, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Brother Antoninus (a/k/a William Everson, who would eventually displace Bukowski as my favorite). I was also enthralled with the plays and poetry of Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones).
“Wearing My Maturity,” page 239
The characteristics many attribute to the supernatural have always been a natural/given part of how I am in the world. My intelligence. I have grown more comfortable with this as I’ve aged.
“The Riot Inside Me,” page 256
In 1991, following the death of my father, I took a major risk and quit my “slave” as medical secretary, encouraged by my third husband of ten years. The pull of my gift could no longer be denied. I had to write—regardless. I was in my mid-forties. Other than temporary layoffs, it was the first time since 1972 that I had been without a regular paycheck. Ahead lay disaster—spun from the ever-complex machinations of race . . . On April 29 1992, as I left a late morning meeting at the Department of Cultural Affairs, the verdict by the Simi Valley jury in the Rodney King beating case was announced . . . By the time I arrived home the city was again in flames . . .
“The Riot Inside Me,” page 258
What does a poet do when poetry is the most under-appreciated art in the nation—even considered subversive . . . Being who I am, I can’t not make note of the ironies—of the arrogance governing our nation’s rhetoric . . . I decided I had to get out of the house and drive out to the cemetery. I had not visited my father’s grave in over a year. I did as usual: took grass clippers, a rag, and bottled water, got down on my knees and tidied up, asking as I always do, the unanswerable.
Wanda in Worryland
i get scared sometimes
and have to go look in to the closet to see if his clothes
are still there
i have been known to imagine a situation
and then get involved in it, upset, angry and
cry hot tears
i have gone after people
with guns
once i tried to hang myself and got terribly ashamed
afterwards because i was really faking it
i have gone after people
with rocks
i have cursed out old white lady cart pushers in
supermarkets who block the aisles in slow motion
i have gone after people
with my fists
i have walked out on pavlovian trainers who mistook me
for a dog
i go to sleep and have dreams about falling
and can’t stand the suspense so i sweat it out
and land on my feet
i have gone after people
with poems
i get scared sometimes
and have to go look into the mirror to see if i’m
still here
Doing Battle with the Wolf
1.
i drip blood
on my way to and from work
i drip blood
down the aisles while shopping at the supermarket
i drip blood
standing in line at the bank
filling my tank at the gas station
visiting my man in prison
buying money orders at the post office
driving the kids to school
walking to bed at night
i drip blood
an