{"product_id":"brown-isbn-9781524711146","title":"Brown","description":"\u003cb\u003eJames Brown. John Brown's raid. Brown v. the Topeka Board of Ed. The prizewinning author of \u003ci\u003eBlue Laws \u003c\/i\u003emeditates on all things \"brown\" in this powerful new collection.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Vital and sophisticated ... sinks hooks into you that cannot be easily removed.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDivided into \"Home Recordings\" and \"Field Recordings,\" \u003ci\u003eBrown\u003c\/i\u003e speaks to the way personal experience is shaped by culture, while culture is forever affected by the personal, recalling a black Kansas boyhood to comment on our times. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom \"History\"—a song of Kansas high-school fixture Mr. W., who gave his students \"the Sixties \/ minus Malcolm X, or Watts, \/ barely a march on Washington\"—to \"Money Road,\" a sobering pilgrimage to the site of Emmett Till's lynching, the poems engage place and the past and their intertwined power. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese thirty-two taut poems and poetic sequences, including an oratorio based on Mississippi \"barkeep, activist, waiter\" Booker Wright that was performed at Carnegie Hall and the vibrant sonnet cycle \"De La Soul Is Dead,\" about the days when hip-hop was growing up (\"we were black then, not yet \/ African American\"), remind us that blackness and brownness tell an ongoing story. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA testament to Young's own—and our collective—experience, \u003ci\u003eBrown\u003c\/i\u003e offers beautiful, sustained harmonies from a poet whose wisdom deepens with time.“Necessary . . . Young’s book releases a universal shout—political in the best, most visceral way, critical, angry, squinting hard at this culture—while remaining at the same time deeply and lovingly personal. Love soars over every section, especially the most painful ones.” \u003cb\u003e—Luis Alberto Urrea, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ambitious . . . . [Young] effortlessly blends memories of his own experiences — his childhood in Kansas, his college years and his travels — with reflections on sports figures, musicians and others who have impacted American life . . . . Young’s writing is crisp and well paced, his rhythms and harmonies complex. His virtuosity is on display as he illustrates the intersections between place and the past, the individual and the collective consciousness.”\u003cb\u003e —Elizabeth Lund, \u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Vital and sophisticated . . . sinks hooks into you that cannot be easily removed . . . Keeping up with him is like trying to keep up with Bob Dylan or Prince in their primes.” \u003cb\u003e—Dwight Garner, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not only beautiful but essential . . . A survey of American history through the ‘intimate eye’ that only poetry can provide, \u003ci\u003eBrown\u003c\/i\u003e pinpoints pop-cultural touchstones and their impact on how we live. His poems, on their own, pierce in their wisdom; together, they connect to form a vibrant tapestry of black life.” \u003cb\u003e—David Canfield, \u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Feels effortless . . . Each poem is tight to its subject, spare and musical in its language, and specific but resonates with significance in social, political, or historical realms.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eAmerican Microreviews \u0026amp; Interviews,\u003c\/i\u003e Edward A. Dougherty\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kevin Young’s poetry dazzles me.” \u003cb\u003e—Lorraine Berry, \u003ci\u003eSignature\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This new collection continues and deepens the poet’s lyrical exploration of the African American cultural influences who shaped his—and the nation’s—identity. Through short, spare lines that dance, chime, laugh, lament, and assert, Young creates a consciousness-in-motion, a weaving of personal and national histories that not only reanimates the past but moves forcefully into the present.” \u003cb\u003e—Fred Muratori, \u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thrillingly quick-footed, Young’s poems are also formally intricate and fully loaded with history, protest, and emotion.” \u003cb\u003e—Donna Seaman, \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Young is writing through moments of the exemplary and mundane—‘we breathe,\/ we grieve, we drink \/ our tidy drinks’—for himself and his community alike . . . Personal, historic, and contemporary confrontations with white supremacy, such as ‘Triptych for Trayvon Martin,’ feature prominently.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eKEVIN YOUNG is the director of the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture and poetry editor for \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker.\u003c\/i\u003e He is the author of twelve books of poetry and prose, including \u003ci\u003eBlue Laws: Selected \u0026amp; Uncollected Poems 1995-2015,\u003c\/i\u003e longlisted for the National Book Award; and \u003ci\u003eBook of Hours,\u003c\/i\u003e winner of the Lenore Marshall Prize from the Academy of American Poets. Young's book \u003ci\u003eBunk: The Rise of Hoaxes, Humbug, Plagiarists, Phonies, Post-Facts, and Fake News,\u003c\/i\u003e a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Book, was longlisted for the National Book Award and appeared on many \"best of\" lists for 2017. His collection \u003ci\u003eJelly Roll: A Blues\u003c\/i\u003e was a finalist for both the National Book Award and the Los Angeles Times\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eBook Prize for Poetry. His nonfiction book \u003ci\u003eThe Grey Album: On the Blackness of Blackness\u003c\/i\u003e won the Graywolf Press Nonfiction Prize and the PEN Open Book Award, and was a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Book and a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award for criticism. He is the editor of eight other collections and was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 2016.\u003cb\u003eBrown\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e           \u003ci\u003efor my mother\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The scrolled brown arms\u003cbr\u003e             of the church pews curve\u003cbr\u003e like a bone—their backs\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e bend us upright, standing\u003cbr\u003e             as the choir enters\u003cbr\u003e       singing, \u003ci\u003eWe’ve come this far \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eby faith—\u003c\/i\u003ethe steps\u003cbr\u003e             \u0026amp; sway of maroon robes,\u003cbr\u003e       hands clap like a heart\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e in its chest—\u003ci\u003eleaning\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e            on the Lord—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e       this morning’s program\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e still warm\u003cbr\u003e             from the mimeo machine\u003cbr\u003e       quick becomes a fan.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In the vestibule latecomers\u003cbr\u003e             wait just outside\u003cbr\u003e       the music—the river \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e we crossed\u003cbr\u003e             to get here—\u003cbr\u003e wide boulevards now \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e *\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e in disrepair.\u003cbr\u003e We’re watched over\u003cbr\u003e       in the antechamber\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e by Rev.\u003cbr\u003e       Oliver Brown, \u003cbr\u003e his small, colored picture\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e nailed slanted\u003cbr\u003e to the wall—former\u003cbr\u003epastor of St. Mark’s \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e who marched\u003cbr\u003e into that principal’s office\u003cbr\u003e       in Topeka to ask \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e why can’t my daughter\u003cbr\u003e school here, just\u003cbr\u003e steps from our house—\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e but well knew the answer—\u003cbr\u003e \u0026amp; Little Linda\u003cbr\u003e became an idea, became more\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e what we needed \u0026amp; not\u003cbr\u003e             a girl no more—\u003ci\u003eFree-dom\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e       \u003ci\u003eFree-dom—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e *\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Now meant\u003cbr\u003e             sit-ins \u0026amp; \u003ci\u003eI shall I shall \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI shall not be\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003emoved—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u0026amp; four little girls bombed\u003cbr\u003e into tomorrow\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e in a church basement like ours\u003cbr\u003e where nursing mothers \u0026amp; children\u003cbr\u003e not ready to sit still\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e learned to walk—Sunday school \u003cbr\u003e sent into pieces\u003cbr\u003e \u0026amp; our arms.\u003cbr\u003e             \u003cbr\u003e We are \u003cbr\u003e swaying more\u003cbr\u003e now, entering\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e heaven’s rolls—the second row\u003cbr\u003e             behind the widows\u003cbr\u003e in their feathery hats\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u0026amp; empty nests, heads heavy\u003cbr\u003e       but not hearts\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eAmen\u003c\/i\u003e. The all-white\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e *\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e stretchy, scratchy dresses \u003cbr\u003e             of the missionaries—\u003cbr\u003e the hatless holy who pin lace\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e to their hair—bowing\u003cbr\u003e             down into pocketbooks\u003cbr\u003e opened for the Lord, then\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e snapped shut \u003cbr\u003e like a child’s mouth\u003cbr\u003e mouthing off, which just\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e one glare from an elder\u003cbr\u003e             could close.\u003cbr\u003e God’s eyes must be\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e like these—aimed\u003cbr\u003e             at the back row \u003cbr\u003e where boys pass jokes \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u0026amp; glances, where Great \u003cbr\u003e Aunts keep watch,\u003cbr\u003e their hair shiny\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e as our shoes\u003cbr\u003e             \u0026amp;, as of yesterday,\u003cbr\u003e just as new— \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e *\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003echemical curls \u0026amp; lop-\u003cbr\u003e             sided wigs—humming\u003cbr\u003e       during offering\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eOh my Lord\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e            Oh my Lordy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e      What can I do.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The pews curve like ribs\u003cbr\u003e             broken, barely healed,\u003cbr\u003e       \u0026amp; we can feel \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e ourselves breathe—\u003cbr\u003e while Mrs. Linda Brown\u003cbr\u003e Thompson, married now, hymns\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e piano behind her solo—\u003cbr\u003e No finer noise\u003cbr\u003e       than this—\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e We sing\u003cbr\u003e along, or behind, \u003cbr\u003e       mouth most \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e every word—following \u003cbr\u003e her grown, glory voice,\u003cbr\u003e       the black notes\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e *\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e rising like we do—\u003cbr\u003e             like Deacon\u003cbr\u003e       Coleman who my mother\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e always called \u003ci\u003eMister\u003c\/i\u003e—\u003cbr\u003e             who’d help her\u003cbr\u003e       weekends \u0026amp; last\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I saw him my mother\u003cbr\u003e             offered him\u003cbr\u003e a slice of sweet potato\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e pie as payment—\u003cbr\u003e             or was it apple—\u003cbr\u003e       he’d take no money\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e barely said\u003cbr\u003e             Yes, only\u003cbr\u003e       \u003ci\u003eI could stay\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003efor a piece\u003c\/i\u003e—\u003cbr\u003e             trim as his grey\u003cbr\u003e       moustache, he ate\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e with what I can only\u003cbr\u003e             call dignity—\u003cbr\u003e       fork gently placed\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e *\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e across his emptied plate.\u003cbr\u003e             Afterward, full,\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e      \u003c\/i\u003eMr. Coleman’s \u003ci\u003eThat’s nice\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e meant wonder, meant \u003cbr\u003e the world entire.\u003cbr\u003e       Within a year cancer\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e had eaten him away—\u003cbr\u003e the only hint of it\u003cbr\u003e this bitter taste for a whole\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e year in his mouth. \u003ci\u003eThe resurrection\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e            and the light.\u003c\/i\u003e      \u003cbr\u003e For now he’s still\u003cbr\u003e             \u003cbr\u003e standing down front, waiting\u003cbr\u003e at the altar for anyone \u003cbr\u003e to accept the Lord, rise\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u0026amp; he’ll meet you halfway\u003cbr\u003e \u0026amp; help you down\u003cbr\u003e       the aisle—\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e legs grown weak—\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e As it was in the beginning\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eIs now\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e *\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eAnd ever shall be—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All this tuning\u003cbr\u003e       \u0026amp; tithing. We offer\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e our voices up \u003cbr\u003e toward the windows\u003cbr\u003e whose glass I knew\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e as colored, not stained—\u003cbr\u003e our backs\u003cbr\u003e made upright not by\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e the pews alone—\u003cbr\u003e the brown         \u003cbr\u003e wood smooth, scrolled\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e arms grown\u003cbr\u003e             warm with wear—\u003cbr\u003e \u0026amp; prayer—\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eTell your neighbor\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e            next to you\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eyou love them—\u003c\/i\u003etill \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e we exit\u003cbr\u003e into the brightness \u003cbr\u003e beyond the doors.","brand":"Knopf","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304908771557,"sku":"NP9781524711146","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781524711146.jpg?v=1767723117","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/brown-isbn-9781524711146","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}