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eren_reads's review against another edition
reflective
medium-paced
4.0
Who gets to get away with it?
Who gets to be a genius first, a criminal second?
This is an amazing poetry collection that analyses not just the black experience in modern day Britain but also how the media portrays blackness and the historical issues that black people have faced.
theeuphoriczat's review
5.0
Exquisite, remarkable, amazing, delectable, and more. I really dont want to say much because this is one that you need to experience yourself. I was fortunate to attend a reading event with the Author himself and it really brought each of these poems to life and the thread between each poetry in this collection!
As a Yoruba girl, I am so happy to read this book. It starts out in my mother tongue, and it just made me so giddy. Anyways, this is collection that centres and revolves around contemporary Black masculinity, race, fragility, family & community, sexuality, boyhood, fatherhood, Black bodies, fear of death, illness, culture, death and loss.
This is a masterclass in parallel circuitry, and it was beautifully electric. Yomi draws on the Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio the famous Italian painter who was able to smoothly escape from the gallows even after killing a man that insulted his honour and person. He was able to use his talent (painting) to buy his freedom. Yomi asks and, in a sense, answers in this collection, why it is easy for a white man to escape his wrongdoing, while a Black man is not given the same opportunity. Why does the fear that the white man harbour in his heart, lead to the death or oppression of the Black man? Why have black men decided to internalise and exhibit the fragility born of ignorance and privileged that the white man has without realising that because of their Blackness they are not perceived the same?
If Caravaggio can kill a man because of his honour, the Black man does not dare do the same.
Some of my favourite poems are "PC Joshua Savage Pulls Leon Fontana Over for a Routine Check" ; wherein he says "What is there to teach white men who do not feel their power? Is it our fault or theirs that in confrontation they feel less empire, more artifact - less demigod and more a future meme? another is "Manorism II: A Thanos Theory" ; wherein he says "Mocking a movement because its's not his problem. Blud, who needs this fantasy, when an Empire carved its narrative on Black lives for generation, so deep it's still her with us, & it loops through me".
I highly recommend this book.
As a Yoruba girl, I am so happy to read this book. It starts out in my mother tongue, and it just made me so giddy. Anyways, this is collection that centres and revolves around contemporary Black masculinity, race, fragility, family & community, sexuality, boyhood, fatherhood, Black bodies, fear of death, illness, culture, death and loss.
This is a masterclass in parallel circuitry, and it was beautifully electric. Yomi draws on the Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio the famous Italian painter who was able to smoothly escape from the gallows even after killing a man that insulted his honour and person. He was able to use his talent (painting) to buy his freedom. Yomi asks and, in a sense, answers in this collection, why it is easy for a white man to escape his wrongdoing, while a Black man is not given the same opportunity. Why does the fear that the white man harbour in his heart, lead to the death or oppression of the Black man? Why have black men decided to internalise and exhibit the fragility born of ignorance and privileged that the white man has without realising that because of their Blackness they are not perceived the same?
If Caravaggio can kill a man because of his honour, the Black man does not dare do the same.
Some of my favourite poems are "PC Joshua Savage Pulls Leon Fontana Over for a Routine Check" ; wherein he says "What is there to teach white men who do not feel their power? Is it our fault or theirs that in confrontation they feel less empire, more artifact - less demigod and more a future meme? another is "Manorism II: A Thanos Theory" ; wherein he says "Mocking a movement because its's not his problem. Blud, who needs this fantasy, when an Empire carved its narrative on Black lives for generation, so deep it's still her with us, & it loops through me".
I highly recommend this book.
the_abundant_word's review
dark
emotional
inspiring
reflective
5.0
I often see a lot of reviewers use the word visceral when reviewing books and I feel like it’s such a big, beautiful, deep word that it makes me long to feel something this deeply as well.
Then here comes this book.
Typically, I read books that offer me distance from my daily life. Not necessarily escapism but maybe some new angle that allows me to reflect on society or scenarios that happen in life with a certain detachment that ensures I won’t have to feel any daily pain twice.
This book was different. It provoked a visceral reaction that shattered me. It spoke to my pain. My particular pain. As a Black British woman from London. As a mother to a Black son, who is almost a man and who I can’t protect from all that a young Black man has to deal with. As a person who, at 39, really only recently understood the uncertainty and inevitably of death and finds it upsetting. Terrifying.
It spoke of the frustrations most of us will understand in the Black community, the issues in families, the modern culture and events that make Black masculinity be seen as both blessing and curse, the daily and generational pain we carry in a landscape that is so often hostile to us.
Most importantly, I think, is that it gives Black men a voice. In a place, in a manner that isn’t really heard enough. Through poetry. Art. Through a testimony so tender, personal and vulnerable that I wanted to reach through the page and hug the writer and try to absorb some of that pain and grief.
And I cried. I cried for my son. I cried for my brother. I cried for my uncles, and for this writer and Londoners and for our many Black communities. I cried because it was so raw, so beautiful, so deep… A safe space to feel anger and grief and love in a voice that I recognised spiritually.
For me this is a modern classic.
Then here comes this book.
Typically, I read books that offer me distance from my daily life. Not necessarily escapism but maybe some new angle that allows me to reflect on society or scenarios that happen in life with a certain detachment that ensures I won’t have to feel any daily pain twice.
This book was different. It provoked a visceral reaction that shattered me. It spoke to my pain. My particular pain. As a Black British woman from London. As a mother to a Black son, who is almost a man and who I can’t protect from all that a young Black man has to deal with. As a person who, at 39, really only recently understood the uncertainty and inevitably of death and finds it upsetting. Terrifying.
It spoke of the frustrations most of us will understand in the Black community, the issues in families, the modern culture and events that make Black masculinity be seen as both blessing and curse, the daily and generational pain we carry in a landscape that is so often hostile to us.
Most importantly, I think, is that it gives Black men a voice. In a place, in a manner that isn’t really heard enough. Through poetry. Art. Through a testimony so tender, personal and vulnerable that I wanted to reach through the page and hug the writer and try to absorb some of that pain and grief.
And I cried. I cried for my son. I cried for my brother. I cried for my uncles, and for this writer and Londoners and for our many Black communities. I cried because it was so raw, so beautiful, so deep… A safe space to feel anger and grief and love in a voice that I recognised spiritually.
For me this is a modern classic.
theabundantword's review
emotional
medium-paced
5.0
I often see a lot of reviewers use the word visceral when reviewing books and I feel like it’s such a big, beautiful, deep word that it makes me long to feel something this deeply as well.
Then here comes this book.
Typically, I read books that offer me distance from my daily life. Not necessarily escapism but maybe some new angle that allows me to reflect on society or scenarios that happen in life with a certain detachment that ensures I won’t have to feel any daily pain twice.
This book was different. It provoked a visceral reaction that shattered me. It spoke to my pain. My particular pain. As a Black British woman from London. As a mother to a Black son, who is almost a man and who I can’t protect from all that a young Black man has to deal with. As a person who, at 39, really only recently understood the uncertainty and inevitably of death and finds it upsetting. Terrifying.
It spoke of the frustrations most of us will understand in the Black community, the issues in families, the modern culture and events that make Black masculinity be seen as both blessing and curse, the daily and generational pain we carry in a landscape that is so often hostile to us.
Most importantly, I think, is that it gives Black men a voice. In a place, in a manner that isn’t really heard enough. Through poetry. Art. Through a testimony so tender, personal and vulnerable that I wanted to reach through the page and hug the writer and try to absorb some of that pain and grief.
And I cried. I cried for my son. I cried for my brother. I cried for my uncles, and for this writer and Londoners and for our many Black communities. I cried because it was so raw, so beautiful, so deep… A safe space to feel anger and grief and love in a voice that I recognised spiritually.
For me this is a modern classic.
Then here comes this book.
Typically, I read books that offer me distance from my daily life. Not necessarily escapism but maybe some new angle that allows me to reflect on society or scenarios that happen in life with a certain detachment that ensures I won’t have to feel any daily pain twice.
This book was different. It provoked a visceral reaction that shattered me. It spoke to my pain. My particular pain. As a Black British woman from London. As a mother to a Black son, who is almost a man and who I can’t protect from all that a young Black man has to deal with. As a person who, at 39, really only recently understood the uncertainty and inevitably of death and finds it upsetting. Terrifying.
It spoke of the frustrations most of us will understand in the Black community, the issues in families, the modern culture and events that make Black masculinity be seen as both blessing and curse, the daily and generational pain we carry in a landscape that is so often hostile to us.
Most importantly, I think, is that it gives Black men a voice. In a place, in a manner that isn’t really heard enough. Through poetry. Art. Through a testimony so tender, personal and vulnerable that I wanted to reach through the page and hug the writer and try to absorb some of that pain and grief.
And I cried. I cried for my son. I cried for my brother. I cried for my uncles, and for this writer and Londoners and for our many Black communities. I cried because it was so raw, so beautiful, so deep… A safe space to feel anger and grief and love in a voice that I recognised spiritually.
For me this is a modern classic.