In the midst of excitedly preparing for AWP 2017, we record this episode in which we discuss two poems by Rita Banerjee, “The Suicide Rag” and “Georgia Brown”


This week’s discussion both took us back and made sure that none of us would see the world the same way again. With images of breakdancing, gospel choir, and the not-so-innocent Georgia Brown, we were in it. Whether we’re distinguishing jazz from jazz or figuring out what a clapper is, this episode is filled with risky moves.


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And of course, most importantly, read on!


 

At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Jason Schneiderman, Tim Fitts, and Sara Aykit



Rita Banerjee is the author of Echo in Four Beats, CREDO: An Anthology of Manifestos and Sourcebook for Creative Writing, the novella “A Night with Kali” in Approaching Footsteps, and Cracklers at Night. She received her doctorate in Comparative Literature from Harvard and her MFA from the University of Washington, and her work appears in Hunger Mountain, PANK, Tupelo Quarterly, Isele Magazine, Nat. Brut., Poets & Writers, Academy of American Poets, Los Angeles Review of Books, Vermont Public Radio, and elsewhere. She is the co-writer of Burning Down the Louvre, a forthcoming documentary film about race, intimacy, and tribalism in the United States and in France, and serves as Senior Editor of the South Asian Avant-Garde and Creative Director of the Cambridge Writers’ Workshop. She received a 2021-2022 Creation Grant from the Vermont Arts Council for her new memoir and manifesto on female cool, and one of the opening chapters of this memoir, “Birth of Cool” was a Notable Essay in the 2020 Best American Essays. She is an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing and Director of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. 


 


The Suicide Rag


Billy played ragtime


on the church


organ but we


lunch hour kids,


kept time by another


name.  Behind St. Augustine’s


we learned to hit


the pavement, sound


like an anvil


crack


hammers hitting


steel, Billy playing


skeletons


on the fifth,


we arpeggioed


haloed, froze


on the black


top.  Learning


to cakewalk


This was our


battle—


tar-mat babies


doing handsprung


suicides


for the girls


standing ’round


with knife-like eyes


That’s all


we needed—


a rolling


beat, a firing squad


and schoolyard


skirts


scouring the lot


as we fell


face forward


hands locked


& stiff, the only


thing


that could’ve


come between


us was a kiss.


 


Georgia Brown


Harlem had yet to be born,


the globe had not been spun,


but we knew how to whistle,


how to call clappers and skirts on cue:


That summer, we first met Georgia,


she was an echo in four beats,


we learned to hum her story.


Mike played her with a licked reed


but she was all brass, sharp


like an abandoned railroad cutting through


wild wood, and when she took stage,


she made those trombone boys whisper,


“Sweet Georgia, Sweet.”

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