Recently, I had the pleasure of reading a proof edition of Stink : Poetry and Prose of Detroit. I was blown away by this depth of this book. It’s written both in prose and poetry to give a balance of the ideas and reality of the city now.
As a city, Detroit has taken the brunt of our current economic tourmoil. It’s hard to conceptualize that one city could fall so far and so hard. I’ve heard people say they’d rather be in Beruit than Detroit now. Gangs have all but taken over the neighborhoods. Good, honest people hide in terror in their homes. Drugs? Sure. Unemployment? More than any city in the United States. Hopelessness has become a way of life in Detroit.
And Stink tells it all.
When Steinbeck set about writing his California novels (The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, In Dubious Battle), I seriously doubt he thought he was documenting the Depression. Yet decades later, these novels help us understand beyond the numbers and figures. Through Steinbeck, we begin to understand the people who lived through the Depression.
In Stink, Mark created the same kind of genius. He’s documented the hearts, souls and minds of the people of Detroit living through our current whatever-you-want-to-call-it.
The book is only $9. Mark explains more about he book in this blog post. Do yourself a favor, email him at detstink@gmail.com and beg him for a copy. You won’t regret it.
OG…Thank you so much for those kind words.
Let me share some of the blame for this effort.
To any one who reads this let me be perfectly clear; Claudia first encouraged me in this and gave me critical insight when it was most needed.
The cover was done by a gifted young woman, Michelle Carolan who hit the mark on the first try (http://mindyourthroat.blogspot.com/) and didn’t hesitate to argue with me about the need for proper punctuation in poetry. She won in most cases. Her own poetry is very good, her collage making talent is truly awe inspiring.
Detroit…I’ve been here all my life with interludes in other places. Had I never lived in Philadelphia, Berkeley, NYC or traveled at all, I suppose I would be of the mind that all places are like Detroit. I have come to understand that there is no other place that as a community has been so high and fallen so low. Low enough now to be losing our collective identity which has left us roaming in the desert.
Stephen Crane (Red badge of Courage) wrote:
IN THE DESERT
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter – bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”
Stephen Crane (Pub. 1905)
This is where Detroit is now. It isn’t pretty, once it was known as The Paris of the Mid-West, while considering the history and attitude of Detroiters that may have been a stretch. But still people believed that we would go on forever making the economy that powered great swaths of the middle class.
It seems everyone everywhere knows that our reality has changed. After decades of decline and assault Detroit still wants to try business as usual, which hasn’t worked in the past and will not work in the future.
There will always be a Detroit and in writing this I am reaching out my own hand as a native Detroiter to them without. Reaching, looking for different minds with fresh ideas that may be able to help us find our way to a new identity. A guide out of the desert because the heart is truly bitter at the moment.
STINK
I light a scented candle
and leave it in the wind…
the odor takes me places
I’ve already seen;
I stand outside the abandoned spaces
and sail in on the shallow light.
I see the ghosts
of everything;
writhing in an endless
mass orgy
of over making;
everything
while sucking
polluted air from
the dark hole production
of the coal mine…or was it salt?
One or the other.
In turn,
ghosts
tell me tales
of being
men once
loved becoming
ignored;
reduced
to
just
another
mouth
to
feed.
The images talk
and I smell the smoky tales,
rising on the scent
of a low burning candle.
from attic to cellar,
from machine floor,
to tool room door,
cast off clothes
and the dreams they
once protected,
now left behind
when the final whistle blew.
Fading stories
(with pictures)
flow freely;
the fights,
the strikes,
the fucking for fun
and profit.
Mysterious stories
of babes born in years
fat and skinny;
birthed
when socket wrench A
met tab B
inserted into slot C;
tightened to torque producing
product pushed out in a three way
fever fucking
Folktale’s of piggy back rides
through living rooms,
long since burned down
for insurance money
that paid better than any buyer ever could.
Whispers of dreams come from
the exhalation produced
in a lost virginity
stolen through 40,
no 50, hours of labor
and the
screaming,
moaning,
accusatory
crying
when the
crashing,
falling,
tumbling
wealth left only
the phantom images
of days gone by,
bloated from
naked possessions
now repossessed only
to rise on the musk
in the rising smoke
of a long dead wick
blown out in
a tornado of time.
6-10-09
(c) Mark C. Durfee
Fantastic! I need to pick up a copy of this one!