One of my favorite qualities in poetry is concision, and this collection is far from that. Quincy Troupe offloads phrases by the boatload, stringing words like a freestyler waiting for the next perfect rhyme to find its footing. He is a very musical writer, with many references to jazz musicians and Black singers, but his rhythms make me think to hip-hop too. For example, a stanza from "Telephone Call from Samo for Miles Davis:"
"inside sequences of luminous metaphoric rhythms, / the happenstance of transcendent colors, images thrown together / on canvas, a sheet of paper - filled with notes, words, sentences flying / as bird wings - full of imagination, dancing into our lives as clues, / wake-up calls, signals fusing our attention, focuses it, / then wrapping everything all up within a rapturous moment of incandescent / beauty, like a yardbird, dizzy solo,"
The poetry here is a sendoff to Black music, Black art and Black life- but mostly Black artists: there are tributes to Miles Davis, Romare Bearden, Xenobia Bailey & more. There are also many poems about sex and lust, seduction. Some of the poems like "Some Thoughts about Connecting in Today's Wired World," aren't as interesting, offering plain critiques/ruminations on technology and connectivity. And Troupe also has a tendency to re-use certain words and phrases across the volume- which I'd sympathetically compare to a jazz compositionist returning to familiar tunes during an extended jam session- but more often would find the repetition tedious.
Finally, I didn't think the switching of "I" with "Eye" to be too interesting, but it wasn't a hinderance either. This isn't my favorite type of poetry, but after sticking with the volume I began to appreciate its freewheeling ruminations. Some of my favorite poems: "Catching Shadows" / "Soon to Be Ghost Voices Plunging through the Sky" / "Untitled Rant" / "Telephone Call from Samo for Miles Davis" / "Blue Mandala."
here is a final excerpt from "Untitled Rant:"
"now inside this absentminded poem, steeped in my own cadences, / contradicted, conflicted, growing from the duende of my own gumbo life, / lived scattershot, where there is joy - yours too reader, hearer - / you pick & choose your own poison, phrases you need to rub up against / now inside your own idiomatic voice, twisting turning against sterile / sensibilities, full of images of correctness pricking your eyes, / who knows after all is said & done what might serve as a conduit / to ears understanding beats of your own heart, your own attempt to speak, / like now, because who knows when your own mode of speaking / your idiomatic tongue might be altered when uttered in your own / breath, as any other fragmented traveler on this highway of words / leading to self, a chicken bone crossroads full of ghosts, strange images, / shapes, where we all might hear poetry whispering through,"