A Fortune for Your Disaster
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4.0 • 2 Ratings
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- $9.99
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- $9.99
Publisher Description
“When an author’s unmitigated brilliance shows up on every page, it’s tempting to skip a description and just say, Read this! Such is the case with this breathlessly powerful, deceptively breezy book of poetry.” —Booklist, Starred Review
In his much-anticipated follow-up to The Crown Ain't Worth Much, poet, essayist, biographer, and music critic Hanif Abdurraqib has written a book of poems about how one rebuilds oneself after a heartbreak, the kind that renders them a different version of themselves than the one they knew. It's a book about a mother's death, and admitting that Michael Jordan pushed off, about forgiveness, and how none of the author's black friends wanted to listen to "Don't Stop Believin'." It's about wrestling with histories, personal and shared. Abdurraqib uses touchstones from the world outside—from Marvin Gaye to Nikola Tesla to his neighbor's dogs—to create a mirror, inside of which every angle presents a new possibility.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
This resonant second collection from cultural critic, essayist, and poet Abdurraqib grapples with physical and emotional acts of violence and their political context. Woven throughout these lyrical meditations on racial tension, heartbreak, friendship, and pop culture, 13 poems titled "How Can Black People Write About Flowers at a Time Like This" display Abdurraqib's technical dexterity, particularly with enjambment ("Forgive me, for I have been nurturing/ my well-worn grudges against beauty"), while creating a sense of conditions both inescapable and irresolvable. Abdurraqib's background in music criticism informs an imaginative series engaged with Marvin Gaye, which in its more effective turns ("your mama so black she my mama too") combines pathos with affectionate humor. Several poems titled "It's Not Like Nikola Tesla Knew All of Those People Were Going to Die" explore the human cost of playing God, while elsewhere, poems provide visceral eyewitness sense of everyday life with precise insights: "The mailman still hands me bills like I should be lucky to have my name on anything in this town." More confessional poems, such as "And Just Like That, I Part Ways with the Only Thing I Won in the Divorce," create a narrative continuity with the poet's previous collection; these speakers' losses may suggest that "true wealth/ is the ability to embrace forgetting," yet such wry commentary reveals its own hard-won, defiant resilience.
