Riff-rattled and jack-legged, critic and poet Fred Moten conducts the ministers of the 'Black Arts Movement,' fusing them into an orchestral procession. . . . Not limited to inspiration from the African Diaspora, Moten calls on a polyphonic nexus of awareness. In an interview at the end, he refers to 'radical political comportment' as representing 'something inextricably bound to escape, fugitivity, criminality.' There's no escaping the choral radiance here. - Jeffrey Cyphers Wright, Brooklyn Rail
Poetry as inquiry. Poetry as communication through time, space, and distance. Poetry as a collection of personal connections to people, places, memory. Poetry as elegy. Poetry as commentary. Poetry like'riding a bus in the city.' . . . Under the surface is a deeply intellectual inquisition, a purposeful pursuit of understanding: self, culture, family, race, people, music. It is lyrical, polysonic, fresh. Moten is both a high theorist and an experimental poet. It is poetry in relation to the world through the self. It is not just an imitation of music, but an embodiment of what is at the heart of the music in question. The essential center of it. - Kristina Erny, University of Arizona Poetry Center
Fred Moten can't stop won't stop blurring genres, modes, lexical registers,
disciplines and the whole damn phenomenal world, in an ecstasy of creative
permission so liberating that it verges on the terrifying; this book is almost
too beautiful to read. - Maria Damon, XCP
Like the work of the many subjects of these poems, Moten's latest book is a nuanced yet exhilarating avant-garde fusion of theory and improvisation. - Lori Tsang, Multicultural Review
Fred Moten's newest collection is a roll call, a syllabus, a discography, church. These poems are a family reunion, where relatives from different branches literally make conversation, the hard way, by creating the common language as they go. Listening in is a pleasurable challenge; to paraphrase Coltrane, what I didn't understand, I felt emotionally. I fell in love with the table of contents and was still giddy at the final words. 'It's a little [less] alone.'-Evie Shockley, Rutgers University
If the blues is really the poetic spirit of a people, that place deep in the unconscious where emotion, dream, and intellect commingle in flammable combinations, then Fred Moten is one of the greatest bluesmen of our generation. Thank you, B. Jenkins, for the fire.-Robin D. G. Kelley, author of Thelonious Monk: The Life and Times of an American Original
Fred Moten can't stop won't stop blurring genres, modes, lexical registers,
disciplines and the whole damn phenomenal world, in an ecstasy of creative
permission so liberating that it verges on the terrifying; this book is almost
too beautiful to read. -- Maria Damon * XCP *
Like the work of the many subjects of these poems, Moten's latest book is a nuanced yet exhilarating avant-garde fusion of theory and improvisation. -- Lori Tsang * Multicultural Review *
Poetry as inquiry. Poetry as communication through time, space, and distance. Poetry as a collection of personal connections to people, places, memory. Poetry as elegy. Poetry as commentary. Poetry like'riding a bus in the city.' . . . Under the surface is a deeply intellectual inquisition, a purposeful pursuit of understanding: self, culture, family, race, people, music. It is lyrical, polysonic, fresh. Moten is both a high theorist and an experimental poet. It is poetry in relation to the world through the self. It is not just an imitation of music, but an embodiment of what is at the heart of the music in question. The essential center of it. -- Kristina Erny * University of Arizona Poetry Center *
Riff-rattled and jack-legged, critic and poet Fred Moten conducts the ministers of the 'Black Arts Movement,' fusing them into an orchestral procession. . . . Not limited to inspiration from the African Diaspora, Moten calls on a polyphonic nexus of awareness. In an interview at the end, he refers to 'radical political comportment' as representing 'something inextricably bound to escape, fugitivity, criminality.' There's no escaping the choral radiance here. -- Jeffrey Cyphers Wright * Brooklyn Rail *
As ever with Moten, there is the duty -- the roll is called and the work of pushing arguments and celebrations of black experience and its forms is done . . . [It's] Moten's unique ability to cut down a line, to stop a thought short, that plays more as an ornate visual sketch than call. -- David Need * Oyster Boy Review *
