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Dark Days: Fugitive Essays
A crucial book that calls for community, solidarity, and joy, even in—especially in—these dark days
In his debut work of nonfiction, award-winning poet Roger Reeves finds new meaning in silence, protest, fugitivity, freedom, and ecstasy. Braiding memoir, theory, and criticism, Reeves juxtaposes the images of an opera singer breaking the state-mandated silence curfew by singing out into the streets of Santiago, Chile, and a father teaching his daughter to laugh out loud at the planes dropping bombs on them in Aleppo, Syria. He describes the history of the hush harbor—places where enslaved people could steal away to find silence and court ecstasy, to the side of their impossible conditions. In other essays, Reeves highlights a chapter in Toni Morrison’s Beloved to locate common purpose between Black and Indigenous peoples; he visits the realities of enslaved people on McLeod Plantation, where some of the descendants of those formerly enslaved lived into the 1990s; and he explores his own family history, his learning to read closely through the Pentecostal church tradition, and his passing on of reading as a pleasure, freedom, and solace to his daughter, who is frightened the police will gun them down.
Together, these groundbreaking essays build a profound vision for how to see and experience the world in our present moment, and how to strive toward an alternative existence in intentional community underground. “The peace we fight and search for,” Reeves writes, “begins and ends with being still.”
In his debut work of nonfiction, award-winning poet Roger Reeves finds new meaning in silence, protest, fugitivity, freedom, and ecstasy. Braiding memoir, theory, and criticism, Reeves juxtaposes the images of an opera singer breaking the state-mandated silence curfew by singing out into the streets of Santiago, Chile, and a father teaching his daughter to laugh out loud at the planes dropping bombs on them in Aleppo, Syria. He describes the history of the hush harbor—places where enslaved people could steal away to find silence and court ecstasy, to the side of their impossible conditions. In other essays, Reeves highlights a chapter in Toni Morrison’s Beloved to locate common purpose between Black and Indigenous peoples; he visits the realities of enslaved people on McLeod Plantation, where some of the descendants of those formerly enslaved lived into the 1990s; and he explores his own family history, his learning to read closely through the Pentecostal church tradition, and his passing on of reading as a pleasure, freedom, and solace to his daughter, who is frightened the police will gun them down.
Together, these groundbreaking essays build a profound vision for how to see and experience the world in our present moment, and how to strive toward an alternative existence in intentional community underground. “The peace we fight and search for,” Reeves writes, “begins and ends with being still.”
291 pages, Kindle Edition
Published August 1, 2023
23 people are currently reading
2127 people want to read
About the author
Roger Reeves
12 books54 followersRoger Reeves earned his MFA from the James A. Michener Center for Creative Writing and his PhD from the University of Texas. His poems have appeared in Poetry, American Poetry Review, and Boston Review. He teaches at the University of Illinois, Chicago.
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Displaying 1 - 20 of 20 reviews
February 21, 2023
Reeves’ astonishing use of language in his poetry comes through in this collection of essays (“fugitive essays”) which take a deep dive into the echos that still reverberate (and perhaps they’re not all echos, but continuously refreshed hollers) from the dark days of slavery in the United States. Whether talking about poetry as revolutionary fuel, the complexities of the intersections of Black and Native genocide, revealing the decades-long nightmare that plagues him and the continuous new nightmare that emerges from his young daughter, or the beauty of an unembarrassed kiss on celluloid from 1898, or a myriad of other topics, Reeves never allows for easy answers. This is a heady and serious text that draws in Baldwin, Wright, Morrison, and Hurston but also Fred Moten and Achille Mbembe, T.S. Eliot and Solmaz Sharif. There are a couple essays that didn’t speak to me, but overall this is a brilliant examination of how, why, and where-to this moment in time with all its warring facets has brought us.
March 28, 2024
This was a little too dark and just not my cup of tea- the writing was beautiful and haunting though and I wish I was brave enough to finish it.
November 26, 2023
Good stuff. A poetic way of essaying while presenting and therefore preserving Black history. Quite an interesting approach that works so well.
June 23, 2024
Everything by Roger an instant read.
May 5, 2024
this was, by far, one of my favorite books I've read this year!
"This is why reading is dangerous -- because it points. Reading points to the necessity of pleasure, of longing, of desire -- even if the words of others, even if desire is nowhere in the text that one is reading. Reading itself is desire, desirous, a playing in and with the illicit because reading allows one to occupy a dream, the not-yet-inhabited. Reading points to the invisible, to what must be created that doesn't exist"
"This is why reading is dangerous -- because it points. Reading points to the necessity of pleasure, of longing, of desire -- even if the words of others, even if desire is nowhere in the text that one is reading. Reading itself is desire, desirous, a playing in and with the illicit because reading allows one to occupy a dream, the not-yet-inhabited. Reading points to the invisible, to what must be created that doesn't exist"
November 6, 2023
This is poetry dressed as prose, breathtakingly. You can hardly believe the ease at which this new generation Baldwin shares his perspectives and then punishes our assumptions, with counter ideas that flay ease, flay comfort, flay satisfaction.
It is a fast read, as the poetry accelerates but a slow read as going back and going back a necessity.
It is a fast read, as the poetry accelerates but a slow read as going back and going back a necessity.
August 24, 2025
Review by Joshua Wilson
“Fugitive essays”—the subtitle of Roger Reeves’ essay collection Dark Days—exists as a diminutive outlier on the book’s abstract orange and black cover. Positioned out at the margin, its small font rises vertically as if insisting, by its obvious contrast to the bold and horizontal title that reigns next to it, to have its insinuations considered. I think about the meaning of the word fugitive and I am immediately bombarded by the typical connotations that leach from its letters, connotations that are all derivatives of criminality. But it is by design that the reader’s considerations are provoked with such patterns of common thought, for the directive of this book is to purposely present and then subsequently eschew these typical conventions so that new and enlightening definitions are granted residency.
Reeves’ collection achieves the aforementioned task by first presenting itself as an outpouring of voice that—with a vigor that has been pressurized by years of repression—undresses the sordid systems of our society. He writes, “the problem of the twenty-first century is the problem of the American empire, the cyclical and savage nature of it” (42). With surgically precise and elaborately dense language, Reeves splays open America’s scabbed skin, and forces us to look upon the rancid flesh that has subjugated, with its suppressing stench, populations of people considered ethnically inferior.
These include: a recount of his visit to the McLeod plantation, personal letters written to police brutality victim Michael Brown, a powerful riff on his daughter’s fear of emergency sirens, and a thorough investigation into antebellum “Hush Harbors.” While the breath of emotional resonance included in these explorations alone would suffice in edifying his audience on the virulence of supremacism, Reeves further enhances his testimony with curated references that range from OutKast lyrics to Toni Morrison’s renowned novel Beloved. What results is a skillful scrutiny of America’s exposed flesh, a move to venture through its overwhelming scent to rip a sample from the bone for closer examination. Beneath our eyes the magnified evidence writhes in its cellular form; through the power of Reeves’ words, our attention permeates the shell of pledges and preambles that are no longer able to disguise this innate attribute: “That prison is not out there in the dark, in the unterritorialized ether of America, but it’s in the well-lit center of us darkly” (197).
The phrase “which is to say” is used a number of times in this collection. It is an idiosyncratic motif that Reeves implements at the end of a heavy and detailed discussion to deliver a decisive conclusion. I grew fond of this rhythmic additive because of its ability to act as a linguistic coda: a tangible cue for us to reflect on what was, while also directing our attention toward what must become. That insistence on movement, on progression, is what constitutes the essence of this collection. Although we are presented with those horrid star-spangled seeds of desecration, of Jim Crow, of COINTELPRO, of collateral damage; Reeve’s shows us that the ramifications are only obstacles to be hurdled as we run toward something new: “Which is to say: at the end of suffering, there is a door” (84).
Dark Days is a blueprint for those subjugated to remove the yolks that oppress them. We learn that being a fugitive is only considered criminal by those who wish to halt the process of revitalization. We learn that a fleeing from proscribed definition is essential to the formation of a true identity. We are urged toward the shadowed margins where a welcoming silence exists, and it is there that the marginalized and oppressed can hear the tenor of their voices for the first time and begin to grow and develop.
What does growing look like? In these essays, Reeves professes the importance of love, of dancing, of embracing indefinite sensation. He shows how being content within the stillness of ourselves can provoke pure outbursts of liberating ecstasy: “Ecstasy as that which can detach us from the teleological, from the old patterns of the past that delimit the potential for a new pattern, a maximal freedom” (50).
This collection conjures a fear, an anxiety, a burning anger that has the potential to induce a furious ripping at the roots of America. Efforts like this may be futile, and inevitably end in a wild flailing in which it is hard to decipher who is actually doing the ripping. But Reeves calms us, places a hand on our shoulder and shows us a better way out. Reading this book is like an extension of the visual spectrum, and the avenues toward freedom that rise vertically from the margins begin to appear everywhere: behind closed eyes, in between breaths of prayer, accenting the yelps of Dionysian joy. As we escape down those avenues, Reeves implores that “we must embrace the formlessness of nowhere if we mean to come to who we want to be” (205). We must define our own dark days.
“Fugitive essays”—the subtitle of Roger Reeves’ essay collection Dark Days—exists as a diminutive outlier on the book’s abstract orange and black cover. Positioned out at the margin, its small font rises vertically as if insisting, by its obvious contrast to the bold and horizontal title that reigns next to it, to have its insinuations considered. I think about the meaning of the word fugitive and I am immediately bombarded by the typical connotations that leach from its letters, connotations that are all derivatives of criminality. But it is by design that the reader’s considerations are provoked with such patterns of common thought, for the directive of this book is to purposely present and then subsequently eschew these typical conventions so that new and enlightening definitions are granted residency.
Reeves’ collection achieves the aforementioned task by first presenting itself as an outpouring of voice that—with a vigor that has been pressurized by years of repression—undresses the sordid systems of our society. He writes, “the problem of the twenty-first century is the problem of the American empire, the cyclical and savage nature of it” (42). With surgically precise and elaborately dense language, Reeves splays open America’s scabbed skin, and forces us to look upon the rancid flesh that has subjugated, with its suppressing stench, populations of people considered ethnically inferior.
These include: a recount of his visit to the McLeod plantation, personal letters written to police brutality victim Michael Brown, a powerful riff on his daughter’s fear of emergency sirens, and a thorough investigation into antebellum “Hush Harbors.” While the breath of emotional resonance included in these explorations alone would suffice in edifying his audience on the virulence of supremacism, Reeves further enhances his testimony with curated references that range from OutKast lyrics to Toni Morrison’s renowned novel Beloved. What results is a skillful scrutiny of America’s exposed flesh, a move to venture through its overwhelming scent to rip a sample from the bone for closer examination. Beneath our eyes the magnified evidence writhes in its cellular form; through the power of Reeves’ words, our attention permeates the shell of pledges and preambles that are no longer able to disguise this innate attribute: “That prison is not out there in the dark, in the unterritorialized ether of America, but it’s in the well-lit center of us darkly” (197).
The phrase “which is to say” is used a number of times in this collection. It is an idiosyncratic motif that Reeves implements at the end of a heavy and detailed discussion to deliver a decisive conclusion. I grew fond of this rhythmic additive because of its ability to act as a linguistic coda: a tangible cue for us to reflect on what was, while also directing our attention toward what must become. That insistence on movement, on progression, is what constitutes the essence of this collection. Although we are presented with those horrid star-spangled seeds of desecration, of Jim Crow, of COINTELPRO, of collateral damage; Reeve’s shows us that the ramifications are only obstacles to be hurdled as we run toward something new: “Which is to say: at the end of suffering, there is a door” (84).
Dark Days is a blueprint for those subjugated to remove the yolks that oppress them. We learn that being a fugitive is only considered criminal by those who wish to halt the process of revitalization. We learn that a fleeing from proscribed definition is essential to the formation of a true identity. We are urged toward the shadowed margins where a welcoming silence exists, and it is there that the marginalized and oppressed can hear the tenor of their voices for the first time and begin to grow and develop.
What does growing look like? In these essays, Reeves professes the importance of love, of dancing, of embracing indefinite sensation. He shows how being content within the stillness of ourselves can provoke pure outbursts of liberating ecstasy: “Ecstasy as that which can detach us from the teleological, from the old patterns of the past that delimit the potential for a new pattern, a maximal freedom” (50).
This collection conjures a fear, an anxiety, a burning anger that has the potential to induce a furious ripping at the roots of America. Efforts like this may be futile, and inevitably end in a wild flailing in which it is hard to decipher who is actually doing the ripping. But Reeves calms us, places a hand on our shoulder and shows us a better way out. Reading this book is like an extension of the visual spectrum, and the avenues toward freedom that rise vertically from the margins begin to appear everywhere: behind closed eyes, in between breaths of prayer, accenting the yelps of Dionysian joy. As we escape down those avenues, Reeves implores that “we must embrace the formlessness of nowhere if we mean to come to who we want to be” (205). We must define our own dark days.
August 18, 2023
Thanks to NetGalley for the advance copy of this collection.
The essay collection "Dark Days" by Roger Reeves grapples with significant societal and cultural issues, offering a contemplative examination of the intersections between politics, speech, art, and marginalized communities, particularly within the context of Black vernacular culture. Through a series of "fugitive essays," Reeves seeks to resist the oversimplification of complex topics and explores a range of themes including public expression, community, and liberation.
Reeves' personal reflections on his intellectual journey and influences, particularly those stemming from his engagement with the Black vernacular, lend a unique perspective to the collection. His willingness to draw connections between disparate texts and cultures reflects a curiosity that underscores his ethical approach to inclusivity and appreciation for difference.
However, the collection is not without its shortcomings. Reeves' enthusiastic reliance on comparative language, the frequent use of phrases like "similar to" or "reminiscent of," at times results in a vagueness that muddles the specificity of his arguments. This imprecision, coupled with an undertone of coercion occasionally undermines the very resistance he seeks to champion, resulting in oversimplification.
In conclusion, "Dark Days" by Roger Reeves offers a thoughtful exploration of critical themes in contemporary society, particularly concerning the expression of marginalized communities and the challenges they face in an oversaturated media landscape. While the collection is marked by its commitment to resisting reductionism and fostering nuanced thought, there are instances where its presentation falls short of its ambitious goals. Nevertheless, the essays provide valuable insights into the intersections of culture, politics, and expression, encouraging readers to reflect on their own role in shaping discourse and community.
The essay collection "Dark Days" by Roger Reeves grapples with significant societal and cultural issues, offering a contemplative examination of the intersections between politics, speech, art, and marginalized communities, particularly within the context of Black vernacular culture. Through a series of "fugitive essays," Reeves seeks to resist the oversimplification of complex topics and explores a range of themes including public expression, community, and liberation.
Reeves' personal reflections on his intellectual journey and influences, particularly those stemming from his engagement with the Black vernacular, lend a unique perspective to the collection. His willingness to draw connections between disparate texts and cultures reflects a curiosity that underscores his ethical approach to inclusivity and appreciation for difference.
However, the collection is not without its shortcomings. Reeves' enthusiastic reliance on comparative language, the frequent use of phrases like "similar to" or "reminiscent of," at times results in a vagueness that muddles the specificity of his arguments. This imprecision, coupled with an undertone of coercion occasionally undermines the very resistance he seeks to champion, resulting in oversimplification.
In conclusion, "Dark Days" by Roger Reeves offers a thoughtful exploration of critical themes in contemporary society, particularly concerning the expression of marginalized communities and the challenges they face in an oversaturated media landscape. While the collection is marked by its commitment to resisting reductionism and fostering nuanced thought, there are instances where its presentation falls short of its ambitious goals. Nevertheless, the essays provide valuable insights into the intersections of culture, politics, and expression, encouraging readers to reflect on their own role in shaping discourse and community.
September 12, 2023
Reeves is a poet and this is his first collection of essays subtitled "fugitive essays." The writing is incredibly beautiful and in some essays also incredibly moving. These essays reflect the current state of our society in terms of social and racial justice. Many of the essays are very heady (comparative literature) and I enjoy these types of essays and at the same time, sometimes felt they were over my head. (he effectively threads in Roland Barthes, TS Eliot Greek myths, Victor Jara, Toni Morrison, OutKast, Zora Neale Hurston, among others). Because these are essays, there is some repetition on themes but recognizing this is a collection, I could move past that. Some of the essays evoke James Baldwin's letter to his nephew and Ta Nehisi Coates letter to his son; in this case it is for Reeve's daughter. He also has a series of letters to Michael Brown that also are incredibly moving. As a poet, his prose is incredibly visual - I can't get the image out of my head of the brick with an enslaved child's fingerprint. One of the essays is a meditation on the actor Michael Williams dancing in a you-tube clip.- Haunting and lovely. I recommend taking your time with each essay == to let them soak in rather than read it cover to cover like I did.
Thank you to Netgalley and Graywolf Press for an ARC and I left this review voluntarily.
Thank you to Netgalley and Graywolf Press for an ARC and I left this review voluntarily.
March 2, 2024
I’m very glad I read these essays. They are thick, full of insight, full of fury and intensity, full of wit. The author writes of the world as we know it in this country, and his life, his family, his worries, his concerns, his thoughts. It is brilliant and poetic in many cases. Sometimes it is so thick it is like eating a very rich dessert…you need to slow down to take it in. Rich, rich, rich.
July 2, 2023
Only great writers recognize the minutiae and see how it relates to the world picture as a whole. In his essays, Reeves presents time as a nonlinear construct: any moment is a culmination of pain and joys before it. With this as the narrative glue, his pieces question the futility of trying to commodify and overwrite race and history, when he can see proof of the past in his daily life.
January 7, 2024
Does your hair “resist the legibility of the braid”? Does history offer more angels or villains? What are “hush harbors,” and where can we find them? For further consideration, check out Dark Days, a collection of “fugitive essays” by poet, essayist and University of Texas at Austin professor Roger Reeves that dares to delve into the times when we struggle, those when we succumb, and the precarious space in between of “coming into life while drowning” or, perhaps more accurately, while ablaze. Stare deep into “the burning-house-ness of America,” draw the potential shapes that the “fire next time” may assume, and keep alert for signs of the dead who “dance and yelp far beyond their dying.”
March 4, 2025
“Because truth be told, the master has never understood the full range of his tools nor their volition. The history of Blackness teaches us about the unpredictability of tools, their will, their range, their desires that often run counter to their deployment. We have always (and by we I mean Black folks), we have always been the tools tearing down the master’s house even as we build it.”
June 12, 2025
"Dark Days" isn't a difficult read, but Reeves displays incredible depth. He addresses old issues with a fresh voice in language that dances. His stories are personal and universal. Much like Nick Flynn, he knows how to make ugly beautiful, which is the biggest challenge artists of all kinds face.
April 20, 2024
What he says about "stepping into faith" inspired me. Brilliant and important work.
September 22, 2024
Substantial. Full of cultural, historical, and intellectual connective tissue. Beautiful, searching, and dark. The prose and thinking are insistent.
December 26, 2024
Highly recommend taking a break between essays to fully digest.
December 18, 2025
best collection I read in 2025, Reeves deserves the highest praise
January 9, 2025
absolutely beautiful beautiful book.
"Dearly Beloved, this dirtiness, this melding, is the difficulty of beauty, of making beauty for and of a people who are constantly improvising their humanity, always troubling beauty and troubling trouble for beauty. This troubling, the grit of pleasure-wrestling with the devil for his light, wrestling with the light for its bedevilment."
"Dearly Beloved, this dirtiness, this melding, is the difficulty of beauty, of making beauty for and of a people who are constantly improvising their humanity, always troubling beauty and troubling trouble for beauty. This troubling, the grit of pleasure-wrestling with the devil for his light, wrestling with the light for its bedevilment."
Displaying 1 - 20 of 20 reviews