LUCILLE CLIFTON (June 27, 1936 – February 13, 2010)
Her gift had inadvertently made her a constant throughout my life. Wherever I went, her name seemed to follow, spouting from grade school teachers, slapped against the spine of recommended reading assignments, or floating on my TV screen. She was the voice of my home, Poet Laureate of Maryland, and her book, Everett Anderson's Goodbye, was read to me so many times it became an institution of my youth.
I can't claim to have known her - that wouldn't be fair to the people she loved - but I met her once and she changed my life. Lucille Clifton taught me how to be reckless with a pen, to write about the things many of us dare not mention. Her work explored race, abortion and death, those little intricacies that comprise the spectrum of the human condition. She stared into the fathoms unflinching and retrieved bold pieces of truth. I hope to do the same, taking chances and writing with risk.
Thank you, Ma'am.
Her gift had inadvertently made her a constant throughout my life. Wherever I went, her name seemed to follow, spouting from grade school teachers, slapped against the spine of recommended reading assignments, or floating on my TV screen. She was the voice of my home, Poet Laureate of Maryland, and her book, Everett Anderson's Goodbye, was read to me so many times it became an institution of my youth.
I can't claim to have known her - that wouldn't be fair to the people she loved - but I met her once and she changed my life. Lucille Clifton taught me how to be reckless with a pen, to write about the things many of us dare not mention. Her work explored race, abortion and death, those little intricacies that comprise the spectrum of the human condition. She stared into the fathoms unflinching and retrieved bold pieces of truth. I hope to do the same, taking chances and writing with risk.
Thank you, Ma'am.
Your Homeboy,
Donald E. W. Quist
1 comment:
It's not often that you come across someone with Ms. Clifton's spirit. She wrote poems which are carved into the hearts and minds of every human being.
She wrote poems of eternal veracity
and vivacity while a mother and working full-time. But poetry wasn't her part-time job. She lived it. It was the sweat from a great life.
Thank you, Ms. Clifton. I owe you an element of the peace that consumes at quiet times in the night.
"come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed"
Although you no longer possess the matter of the earth, you have not died and never will.
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