Radio Golf by August Wilson

This is August Wilson’s last play in his impressive cycle of ten, documenting life in twentieth century America, particularly for African Americans. If you’ve never read a play, read this play. It’s a reflection, or perhaps a reaction, to A Raisin in the Sun. (Read that, too). And go watch that Whole Foods parking lot bit. This is, too often, gentrification. A word that’s not necessarily “dirty,” but can be. We’re in Pittsburg, and Harmond Wilks just inherited a real estate agency from his father; and he’s running for office: to be the first black mayor. His wife and friends have big plans: big ideas. But, like most people in the world, (and maybe especially politicians), there’s a past. How can there not be? The kind of past that shouldn’t really be difficult to move on from; but somehow these things tend to grow, and reflect something worse than what is really there. It’s the nineties in this play–that seems significant to remember. It’s not the sixties. But then, it’s 2012 now, and this play might force you to take a look around your own neighborhood; ask yourself some key questions about what needs to be “improved.”

-Micah Ling

(If you’re in the Indianapolis area, this play is being performed at the IRT)

Covet by Lynnell Edwards

Covet is a verb. It’s active. Here, in these poems, it’s also a constant choice. And then, you realize that most emotions–most reactions–are choices. Choose to be angry, or don’t. Choose to be content, or don’t. All of these decisions–all of this action–surrounds us, circling, like wild animals. But sometimes, like love or hunger, it seems like the decision is out of our hands. We covet even when we don’t want to. Like hearing old time music and wanting to be right in the middle of it. We don’t want some things to end, even when they have to, like children at certain ages, and seasons. Letting go of things that must change is horrible and grand at once. It’s so fitting that there’s a catalogue here, from an antique show. A preservation of stuff–the life of stuff that goes on. Stuff that has another life. Several more lives. That’s how we hang onto what we don’t want to lose. Memories. Dishes and tools and prisms: all that outlive us. Lost slipper of light / now dulled. Flat / in the dark box, to hang / in celebration, it refracts / dazzle of dance: choose / me   choose me

-Micah Ling

Of Jibaros and Hillbillies by Ricardo Nazario y Colon

People and place are as tied together as any two things can be. If you doubt that, drive across the country. Observe region and language and food. Better yet, go to an entirely different nation. Places make people. Places make different shades, different sounds and tastes and manners. And then, of course, places mingle. People move. New versions of words are made: new recipes become familiar. These poems are bold in how well they mingle. They’re hilarious and angry. What is poetry without anger? Not much. Read these out loud: amp them up–try the voices on. Somehow these poems trace it all back: a whole history of heat and laughter. Back so far that it’s all connected. At the end, it seems vitally important that we do know why we eat the things we eat; why we sound the way we do. Why we blame and take issue with certain things. This is deeply human–it allows for emotion and the mantras that keep us alive: that keep us tied to where we’re from. These poems are stories of people who have endured a decent amount of uneasiness. Meet them: be with them. See that we are not being judged, / for this carnal dance. 

-Micah Ling