What do you think?
Rate this book
Scratching the Ghost: Poems
The stub of your left leg dangles
as I hold you up, my hands inserted under your arms
like a child. You are complaining about the itch,
the burn; scratch the ghost of your calf and heel.
—from "Scratching the Ghost"
Dexter L. Booth's ruminations on loss in this award-winning debut are rooted in a time past but one still palpable and persistent. Here are memories of love lost, family mourned, a father absent, ghosts of hometowns and childhood. Here too is a "Short Letter to the Twentieth Century" and, finally, a "Long Letter to the Twentieth Century," as if across this collection the poet is mustering up the force to speak back to history.
"In Dexter Booth's Scratching the Ghost, a cracked egg means the universe is splitting, the slap of a double-dutch rope is a broken-throated hymn, and splitting a squealing hog is akin to lovemaking. These are poems loyal to their own intrepid logic and reckless plausibility. Yet, lest the reader get too giddy in a fun house of mirrors, here, too, are the melodic laments and remarkable lyric passages of a poet who acknowledges the infinite current of melancholy that underlines his journey." —Major Jackson
as I hold you up, my hands inserted under your arms
like a child. You are complaining about the itch,
the burn; scratch the ghost of your calf and heel.
—from "Scratching the Ghost"
Dexter L. Booth's ruminations on loss in this award-winning debut are rooted in a time past but one still palpable and persistent. Here are memories of love lost, family mourned, a father absent, ghosts of hometowns and childhood. Here too is a "Short Letter to the Twentieth Century" and, finally, a "Long Letter to the Twentieth Century," as if across this collection the poet is mustering up the force to speak back to history.
"In Dexter Booth's Scratching the Ghost, a cracked egg means the universe is splitting, the slap of a double-dutch rope is a broken-throated hymn, and splitting a squealing hog is akin to lovemaking. These are poems loyal to their own intrepid logic and reckless plausibility. Yet, lest the reader get too giddy in a fun house of mirrors, here, too, are the melodic laments and remarkable lyric passages of a poet who acknowledges the infinite current of melancholy that underlines his journey." —Major Jackson
- GenresPoetry
88 pages, Paperback
First published November 5, 2013
389 people want to read
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 15 of 15 reviews
December 11, 2013
This ought to win a pushcart. Booth should immediately be sequestered in a fortified hospital and pumped for more poems, he's a national treasure.
April 19, 2014
This review was first published on Gulf Stream Online Issue 11 (http://gulfstreamlitmag.com/2014/04/0...)
Dexter L. Booth’s debut poetry collection, Scratching the Ghost, was the 2012 winner of the Cave Canem Poetry Prize, selected by Major Jackson. Booth’s poems have appeared in Amendment, Grist, New Delta Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, and Willow Springs.
–
There’s something eerie, warm, and familiar about Scratching the Ghost. Poet Dexter L. Booth takes us on a ride through a life—his life—with ghostly precision and a distant, yet personal voice. Booth shows us the delicate, harsh, and beautifully tragic nature of human relationships. Mothers, fathers, stepfathers, sisters, grandmothers, even relationships to oneself are cast in memory’s strange glow. In “Anniversary,” Booth documents a battered mother’s beauty rituals—“She puts on her wig like a smile”—and shows her tears, “the future / pooling on the floor.” Descriptions like these transport ordinary and sad everyday moments, into something sparkling and new on the page. To Booth, even the grass is something darkly spectacular: “and the ground was bare with the stubble of grass /hanging over the pathway like frat boys on balconies / puking out their guts before dawn.”
Booth expertly guides the reader through these memories with a fresh, poetic eye. Even “Scratching the Ghost,” a poem about the inevitability of decay and a grandmother’s death, is a shining picture of love where the speaker and his grandmother “dance like there’s nobody home.”
Booth is able to take control of the narrative in exciting ways—there are poems with one governing story and there are poems that weave varied experiences into one collage. In “Waste,” for example, we see Booth build three different stories about types of waste—a grade school “accident,” the truth about the human insides of Barney the Dinosaur, and whacking an old car at the school fair—into a singular story of coming-of-age and self-discovery that culminates in this epiphany: “We would have given everything away for someone to tell us we were men.”
Booth is not only a storytelling poet—he also includes a section of abstracts in this book. Each abstract poem features a less narrative voice, and a very detached, chillingly quiet tone. Dead deer with “Tails like rice” and “Cotton eyes” are a different approach to the same eerie atmosphere Booth has created in the rest of Scratching the Ghost, but without the narrative of the rest of the book.
There’s even room for a social commentary in Scratching the Ghost with “Queen Elizabeth.” This poem, a manifesto on modern literary blackness, is something I’ve been looking for, and I’m so glad to have found it so eloquently expressed. I, too, come from a place where “Jesus is dark-skinned and forgiving.” I, too have thought, “I don’t want to be a black writer.” But, just as Booth’s speaker concludes, I have found my own Black pride, literarily and personally. The speaker’s resounding plea to his black sister, “You are beautiful,” is a plea I hear, and scream out, as I devour this extraordinary debut book.
Booth takes the reader on a difficult, but necessary journey—his verse is calm, exact, and chilling.. The ghosts that live in our minds and lives need scratching up from time to time, and, after reading Scratching the Ghost, I’m eager to unearth the things I’ve buried and let my ghosts run free.
Dexter L. Booth’s debut poetry collection, Scratching the Ghost, was the 2012 winner of the Cave Canem Poetry Prize, selected by Major Jackson. Booth’s poems have appeared in Amendment, Grist, New Delta Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, and Willow Springs.
–
There’s something eerie, warm, and familiar about Scratching the Ghost. Poet Dexter L. Booth takes us on a ride through a life—his life—with ghostly precision and a distant, yet personal voice. Booth shows us the delicate, harsh, and beautifully tragic nature of human relationships. Mothers, fathers, stepfathers, sisters, grandmothers, even relationships to oneself are cast in memory’s strange glow. In “Anniversary,” Booth documents a battered mother’s beauty rituals—“She puts on her wig like a smile”—and shows her tears, “the future / pooling on the floor.” Descriptions like these transport ordinary and sad everyday moments, into something sparkling and new on the page. To Booth, even the grass is something darkly spectacular: “and the ground was bare with the stubble of grass /hanging over the pathway like frat boys on balconies / puking out their guts before dawn.”
Booth expertly guides the reader through these memories with a fresh, poetic eye. Even “Scratching the Ghost,” a poem about the inevitability of decay and a grandmother’s death, is a shining picture of love where the speaker and his grandmother “dance like there’s nobody home.”
Booth is able to take control of the narrative in exciting ways—there are poems with one governing story and there are poems that weave varied experiences into one collage. In “Waste,” for example, we see Booth build three different stories about types of waste—a grade school “accident,” the truth about the human insides of Barney the Dinosaur, and whacking an old car at the school fair—into a singular story of coming-of-age and self-discovery that culminates in this epiphany: “We would have given everything away for someone to tell us we were men.”
Booth is not only a storytelling poet—he also includes a section of abstracts in this book. Each abstract poem features a less narrative voice, and a very detached, chillingly quiet tone. Dead deer with “Tails like rice” and “Cotton eyes” are a different approach to the same eerie atmosphere Booth has created in the rest of Scratching the Ghost, but without the narrative of the rest of the book.
There’s even room for a social commentary in Scratching the Ghost with “Queen Elizabeth.” This poem, a manifesto on modern literary blackness, is something I’ve been looking for, and I’m so glad to have found it so eloquently expressed. I, too, come from a place where “Jesus is dark-skinned and forgiving.” I, too have thought, “I don’t want to be a black writer.” But, just as Booth’s speaker concludes, I have found my own Black pride, literarily and personally. The speaker’s resounding plea to his black sister, “You are beautiful,” is a plea I hear, and scream out, as I devour this extraordinary debut book.
Booth takes the reader on a difficult, but necessary journey—his verse is calm, exact, and chilling.. The ghosts that live in our minds and lives need scratching up from time to time, and, after reading Scratching the Ghost, I’m eager to unearth the things I’ve buried and let my ghosts run free.
April 25, 2014
I’m really looking forward to hearing Dexter read his work at Tempe Poetry in April.
I was interested in the slights of some of the poems in this book--when I say slights I mean all the ways the poems avoid saying things, or say them slightly. I like the peripheries into which the reader is forced. In some ways they feel like erasure poems. Then, we get prose poems with lots of language! Almost opposite of the poems that are much more delicate, yet they are also delicate. I’m impressed by this poet’s ability to use forms seamlessly--not all collections can navigate so well between them, but here they speak to each other well. I really love how this collection creates a narrative so that individual poems don’t have to. The selection and ordering of the poems for the collection is as intelligent as it gets.
Some of my favorite moments:
“And will death be like rolling over during sleep?”
“I am wiping my feet on the doormat of memory.”
“But I know little of the shape of a breast,
perhaps that it curves like a spoon on the tongue.”
“Or how this patio sits
on its side with our breath
beneath it.”
“When the maggots were done
with the owl, we built a city
with its bones.”
“thought I saw a bead of sweat, like an inchworm, making for the leaf of his collar.”
“There is nothing to write about decay.”
“for years I have considered everyone a stranger.”
“The moon swings through the trees like a ball of concrete.”
I was interested in the slights of some of the poems in this book--when I say slights I mean all the ways the poems avoid saying things, or say them slightly. I like the peripheries into which the reader is forced. In some ways they feel like erasure poems. Then, we get prose poems with lots of language! Almost opposite of the poems that are much more delicate, yet they are also delicate. I’m impressed by this poet’s ability to use forms seamlessly--not all collections can navigate so well between them, but here they speak to each other well. I really love how this collection creates a narrative so that individual poems don’t have to. The selection and ordering of the poems for the collection is as intelligent as it gets.
Some of my favorite moments:
“And will death be like rolling over during sleep?”
“I am wiping my feet on the doormat of memory.”
“But I know little of the shape of a breast,
perhaps that it curves like a spoon on the tongue.”
“Or how this patio sits
on its side with our breath
beneath it.”
“When the maggots were done
with the owl, we built a city
with its bones.”
“thought I saw a bead of sweat, like an inchworm, making for the leaf of his collar.”
“There is nothing to write about decay.”
“for years I have considered everyone a stranger.”
“The moon swings through the trees like a ball of concrete.”
February 18, 2015
There is a strange case of inconsistency in "Scratching the Ghost" that I wasn't expecting to find, given its high reviews. I didn't love it the way I thought I would and even debated whether to give it a 2 or a 3 star review. It was poems like "Queen Elizabeth" that 'saved' this collection from being given 2 stars. The poems definitely have a very strong voice and convey their ideas in a very authoritative way, except some of the ideas felt too jumbled in uneven shifts through imagery that threw off the general atmosphere of the poem for me. I can understand why this won the prize however - there is a very strong voice carried through the entire collection that I greatly admired. I think I'll give this one another go in the future, perhaps it'll grow on me more, for it truly wasn't bad, but for now that is the extent of my praise.
October 26, 2013
This is an excellent book of poetry. I really love the language and the passion in the poems. I can't wait to read more from this author.
December 31, 2013
Staggeringly lovely poems from a poet in whom I believe wholeheartedly. May this be the first in many, MANY books from Booth.
April 21, 2014
I have so much love for this book and this poet. I want to write a proper review later, but for now, these are my hands at your back giving you a gentle push: go read it.
October 18, 2020
The hand that made everything /
sing
If there is light, we move /
in its sternum. How wild,
the human need //
for weakness
The citrus bile of fable
If I could eat the sun, imagine what I could do to your mother in bed
I am wiping my feet on the doormat of memory
We would have given everything away for someone to tell us we were men.
A child once told me the sun is the deadliest animal
Dear pomegranate, /
dear wild iris and seed, I will do things differently the first time-
the body /
dragging itself in delirium, going everywhere /
but home.
We'll dance like there's nobody home.
We only see it this way because our brain processes what the eye really wants
nothing is precious to this land /
but the sheltering dread
a bead of sweat, like an inchworm, making for the leaf of his collar
the dirt of our fables /
rock-mist of our myths
star soot /
under your nail
rice capsules of glass and steel, /
hanging beads of water and mountain: //
envy of the sky.
totem of desire, gouged /
center of time
Broken trumpet, /
the age you announce is fleeting.
cloud missiles and trout librarians
There is magic in forgiveness.
flash tandem //
to sound
the horizon raw /
with the squall of birds, your singing rends /
everything feathered from the sky
the glow of time continues rusting /
my rib cage until nothing can move
My friends ask if I’m schmoozing /
with famous writers. I don’t even have a chapbook. /
They don’t know what chapbook means
I feel impaired /
by metaphors for loneliness
for years I have considered everyone a stranger
I no longer suffer self-deceit
speak to the night as though it were a journal
Mala #1 (a punch in the throat)
This is what mends you
This hour that crouches like a vandal /
in the ink, hollow between days
sing
If there is light, we move /
in its sternum. How wild,
the human need //
for weakness
The citrus bile of fable
If I could eat the sun, imagine what I could do to your mother in bed
I am wiping my feet on the doormat of memory
We would have given everything away for someone to tell us we were men.
A child once told me the sun is the deadliest animal
Dear pomegranate, /
dear wild iris and seed, I will do things differently the first time-
the body /
dragging itself in delirium, going everywhere /
but home.
We'll dance like there's nobody home.
We only see it this way because our brain processes what the eye really wants
nothing is precious to this land /
but the sheltering dread
a bead of sweat, like an inchworm, making for the leaf of his collar
the dirt of our fables /
rock-mist of our myths
star soot /
under your nail
rice capsules of glass and steel, /
hanging beads of water and mountain: //
envy of the sky.
totem of desire, gouged /
center of time
Broken trumpet, /
the age you announce is fleeting.
cloud missiles and trout librarians
There is magic in forgiveness.
flash tandem //
to sound
the horizon raw /
with the squall of birds, your singing rends /
everything feathered from the sky
the glow of time continues rusting /
my rib cage until nothing can move
My friends ask if I’m schmoozing /
with famous writers. I don’t even have a chapbook. /
They don’t know what chapbook means
I feel impaired /
by metaphors for loneliness
for years I have considered everyone a stranger
I no longer suffer self-deceit
speak to the night as though it were a journal
Mala #1 (a punch in the throat)
This is what mends you
This hour that crouches like a vandal /
in the ink, hollow between days
August 19, 2021
Definitely did understand everything, but the words were still good for my brain, and maybe that’s the point anyway.
August 27, 2023
A provoking collection where the confliction of identity with which the poet grapples is ironed out and embraced with strength in a metamorphosis that only one with a keen self-awareness can reach.
September 4, 2014
The decision to give words to suffering is still a decision- "Under the Weather"
These poems were simply lovely, and this book is something nice to ruminate on as the summer is winding down. The poems are not overly complex and do not aspire to be what they are not.
I'm still convinced there is no difference
between kneeling and falling if you don't get up - "Prayer at 3 a.m."
Nevertheless, they still manage to capture beauty in that sudden and instantaneous way that only a poem can.
If I could, I would massage your age away,
push back the wrinkles with some child's
grim reaper mask. You can be a little girl forever
if you want. Put on your glasses, I'll spin you some more.
We'll pretend that dawn isn't knocking.
I'll turn up the music, switch off the porch lights.
We'll dance like there's nobody home - "Scratching the Ghost"
These poems were simply lovely, and this book is something nice to ruminate on as the summer is winding down. The poems are not overly complex and do not aspire to be what they are not.
I'm still convinced there is no difference
between kneeling and falling if you don't get up - "Prayer at 3 a.m."
Nevertheless, they still manage to capture beauty in that sudden and instantaneous way that only a poem can.
If I could, I would massage your age away,
push back the wrinkles with some child's
grim reaper mask. You can be a little girl forever
if you want. Put on your glasses, I'll spin you some more.
We'll pretend that dawn isn't knocking.
I'll turn up the music, switch off the porch lights.
We'll dance like there's nobody home - "Scratching the Ghost"
April 10, 2014
At first, I wasn't so sure about this collection. After the rousing introduction from Major Jackson, I was slightly let down by the first few poems. Then "Anniversary" came out of nowhere and captivated my attention! Needless to say, I kept reading and discovered such powerful poems as "Fire," "Queen Elizabeth," and "Poem for My Body." I normally struggle with stream-of-consciousness narration, which this collection thoroughly employs; it leaves me frustrated and bewildered with the plethora of (what my mind can only categorize as) miscellaneous content. Nevertheless, there are a number of really profound pieces in "Scratching the Ghost" that made me pause before pushing me forward. Well done, Booth! I look forward to seeing more.
October 7, 2016
This book and author are incredible. There are poems that are so poignant that you want to scoop up "child Dexter" and take him home so he will be safe and warm. The descriptions are amazing, and a dark, dim, but very real childhood springs from the pages. You will run the gamut of emotions and you flip through these pages - some will have you cringing, laughing or gasping even as the tears begin to spill. The acclaims for this book are more than warranted, and the journey is far from over. Highly recommend this book - read it out loud, read it to yourself, read it to everyone.
December 31, 2013
Why hello Graywolf Press, pleasure to meet you.
June 23, 2014
I found the poems a little bit uneven. Some of them I would have rated 5... but few are just 3....
Displaying 1 - 15 of 15 reviews