ARUN RATH, HOST:
Now, a conversation with one of our most celebrated poets. Marilyn Nelson is a rare double threat as a poet - equally adapted writing for adults and children. And she has a gift for confronting difficult subjects. Her book, "A Wreath for Emmett Till," is a meditation on a historic lynching in poetry that could be appreciated by anyone from the age of 12 on up. Her latest collection is a memoir about her own childhood, a series of 50 poems about growing up, traveling all over America following her father's assignments for the Air Force.
MARILYN NELSON: He graduated in the last class of cadets from a flight school at Tuskegee. So they're now the Tuskegee Airmen. So the story I tell is of the family of an African-American flying officer.
RATH: And because of that, you know, and this is reflected in these poems, is you travel as a military family does, often across the country, you're frequently the first black family, you know, in a lot of these places. You're the first black kid in a lot of these schools, right?
NELSON: Right. Yes. Back when I was in college, people used to talk about the alienation of the artist not ever quite fitting in any place.
RATH: Could I have you read one of the poems that for me conveys - definitely conveys some of that?
RATH: Could you read "A Snake"?
NELSON: OK. This is "A Snake." Each of the poems is identified with a place and a date. So this is Lowery Air Force Base, Colorado, 1953.
(Reading) As soon as we got here, we turned around and drove back through the no-guardrail mountains, connecting the dots of farm mailboxes to towns and faceless people who don't count. Mama hugged Aunt Carma and Uncle George. Daddy wiped his tears with his handkerchief. Oneida wasn't in her pink bedroom. She wasn't in the hospital either. They said she was in that box. She was dead.
We drove back through the frightening mountains. Jennifer and I chanted, there's a snake, to keep ourselves from looking at the huge and scare-defying emptiness. When you die, you go to a different school.
RATH: There's kind of a lot in that from this perspective. You know, even death is seen through the lens of just this another stage of dislocation.
NELSON: Right, right. And for me, for much of my life, when we moved, we just thought the world behind us disappeared and all of the people, they just didn't exist anymore.
RATH: I got to ask you to read another poem. If you could read "Parking Lot Dawn."
NELSON: "Parking Lot Dawn." On the road, 1959, one of my favorite memories.
(Reading) After the cousins came the long drive West - card games, sing-alongs and conversation, alternating drivers, meals in the car, gas station restrooms or behind a tree. Daddy corrects white men who call him boy, even when they're in police uniforms, even though the radio updates news of sit-ins and white citizens' councils. I ride behind his beautiful, close-cropped head, my window slightly cracked for Spider's nose. Last night, awake alone, he parked the car in the Grand Canyon visitor's parking lot. And this morning, he woke us up to dawn. There's more beauty on Earth than I can bear.
RATH: I love that.
NELSON: My father was so proud. I don't know. He wasn't one of those famous Tuskegee Airmen, but I imagine all of them were like this. We would be driving down the highway and get stopped because my father was speeding. I've written another poem about this incident. And a cop stopped us and said: What do you think you're flying, boy? And my father said: B-52s.
NELSON: So there's that attitude in this poem, too, which I think of as a Tuskegee Airmen attitude.
RATH: And the beautiful point of the poetry works towards in this kind of broader narrative over the course of the 50 poems is you're becoming self-aware as a poet and awareness of poetry and that language. Could you read the title poem?
NELSON: Yes. In some ways, this is the seed poem for this book. I wrote this poem many years ago. It's probably 20 years old. And for some reason, it's the only poem in this earlier book that's written as an unrhymed sonnet. And then the rest of the book kind of grew around this poem - so there. This is "How I Discovered Poetry," Clinton Sherman Air Force Base, Oklahoma, 1959.
(Reading) It was like soul kissing, the way the words filled my mouth as Mrs. Purdy read from her desk. All the other kids zoned an hour ahead to 3:15, but Mrs. Purdy and I wandered lonely as clouds born by a breeze off Mount Parnassus. She must have seen the darkest eyes in the room brim. The next day, she gave me a poem she'd chosen especially for me to read to the all -except for me - white class.
She smiled when she told me to read it. Smiled harder, said: Oh, yes. I could. She smiled harder and harder until I stood and opened my mouth to banjo-playing darkies, pickaninnies, disses and dats. When I finished, my classmates stared at a floor. We walked silent to the buses, awed by the power of words.
RATH: Marilyn Nelson reading the title poem of her memoir, "How I Discovered Poetry." You can read an excerpt of her book at our website, npr.org. Marilyn Nelson, thank you so much.
NELSON: Thanks very much.
(SOUNDBITE OF MUSIC)
RATH: This is NPR News.
NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by Verb8tm, Inc., an NPR contractor, and produced using a proprietary transcription process developed with NPR. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Accuracy and availability may vary. The authoritative record of NPR’s programming is the audio record.