ALSO BY ADRIAN MATEJKA
Mixology
The Devil’s Garden
THE BIG SMOKE
ADRIAN MATEJKA
PENGUIN POETS
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First published in Penguin Books 2013
Copyright © Adrian Matejka, 2013
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Pages 107 and 108 constitute an extension of this copyright page.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Matejka, Adrian, 1971–
[Poems. Selections]
The Big Smoke / Adrian Matejka.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-1-101-61308-5
I. Title.
PS3613.A825B54 2013
811’.6—dc23 2012045786
Contents
Also by ADRIAN MATEJKA
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
HURT BUSINESS
BATTLE ROYAL
CANNIBALISM
HURT BUSINESS
THE MANLY ART OF SELF-DEFENSE
THE SHADOW KNOWS
BLUES HIS SWEETIE GIVES TO ME
SHADOW BOXING
PRIZE FIGHTER
FISTICUFFS
WEIGH-IN
SPORTING LIFE
COURTSHIP
“A GREAT MALTESE CAT TOYING WITH A WHITE MOUSE”
LETTER TO BELLE (MAY 27, 1909)
LETTER TO BELLE (MAY 29, 1909)
CHICKEN & OTHER STEREOTYPES
LETTER TO BELLE (SEPTEMBER 15, 1909)
MOUTH FIGHTING
SHADOW BOXING
COOKING LESSONS
INTRODUCTIONS
“TEXAS AUTHORITIES WILL PROSECUTE THE CHAMPION IF HE TAKES WHITE WIFE”
KNEE OFF CANVAS
ROADWORK AT SEAL ROCK
RACE RELATIONS
SHADOW BOXING
VEDI! LE FOSCHE NOTTURNE
LETTER TO BELLE (MARCH 10, 1910)
EQUALITY
PHOTOGRAPHY
“A STRUGGLE BETWEEN A DEMON AND A GRITTY LITTLE DWARF”
THE SHADOW KNOWS
COLOR LINE
FRIENDSHIP
“MACHINE CONTAINING JOHNSON’S FRIENDS WRECKED”
ALIAS
HOSTILITIES
FISTICUFF DIFFICULTY
BET YOUR LAST COPPER
GOLD SMILE
FIDELITY
LETTER TO BELLE (DECEMBER 3, 1910)
OUT OF THE BATH
“CAREFREE AS A PLANTATION DARKY IN WATERMELON TIME”
SHADOW BOXING
THE BATTLE OF THE CENTURY
RACE RELATIONS
MARRIAGE PROPOSAL
ARISTOCRACY
COMPROMISES
THE SHADOW KNOWS
REMEMORY
TICKET ON THE TITANIC
IL TROVATORE
NO DECISION
HUBERT’S MUSEUM & FLEA CIRCUS (1937)
Notes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Penguin Poets
For my mother, Jo Gustin, and for my father, Robert Matejka
Captain, he says, “I ain’t haulin’ no coal.”
Fare thee, Titanic, fare thee well.
When he heard about that mighty shock,
might have seen the man trying to Eagle Rock.
Fare thee, Titanic, fare thee well.
—“THE TITANIC,” LEADBELLY
HURT BUSINESS
BATTLE ROYAL
Back then, they’d chain a bear
in the middle of the bear garden
& let the dogs loose. Iron chains
around a bear’s neck don’t slow
him too much. A bear will always
make short work of a dog. Shakespeare
said Sackerson did it more than
twenty times to dogs & wildcats
alike. & since most creatures
are naturally afraid of bears, there
wouldn’t always be much of a show
in the bear garden. So the handlers
sometimes put the bear’s eyes out
or took his teeth to make the fight
more sporting. I believe you need
eyes more than you need teeth
in a fight, but losing either makes
a bear a little less mean. Once baiting
was against the law, some smart
somebody figured coloreds fight
just as hard if hungry enough.
So they rounded up the skinniest
of us, had us strip to trousers, then
blindfolded us before the fight.
They turned us in hard circles a few
times on the ring steps like a motorcar
engine before pushing us between
the ropes. When the bell rang,
it seemed like I got hit from eight
directions. I didn’t know where
those punches came from, but I swung
so hard my shoulder hasn’t been right
since because the man said only
the last darky on his feet gets a meal.
CANNIBALISM
Coloreds were here before these
United States were even dreamed
of. We have always been on this
land. That’s why I don’t bother
about what Booker T. Washington
says. I’m a pure-blooded American
of the first rate & I don’t need
to cast down a bucket unless there’s
no indoor toilet. After the Great
Storm hit, the Times called us “black
ghouls,” cannibals eating coloreds
& whites like Sunday chicken.
They said we left babies in the street
just so we could take a dead man’s
shoes. They said we sawed off
fingers at the fat meat for rings.
I was there, so I know what’s true:
whole families of coloreds shot
down by whites. “Protecting the dead,”
the sheriffs said, sending buckshot
at any colored in sight. Those
dead people didn’t need any more
protection than the mud & rocks
covering them. After that storm
moved through, me & the other
Galveston boys slept where we could,
spent our days searching for anybody
alive. We got paid whiskey & potatoes.
We found dead mothers & sons,
dead cats & skulls cracked
like teacups under the wet wood
& rock. That’s all the storm left.
HURT BUSINESS
Willie Morris was much larger
than me & struck me in the jaw
for no apparent reason. Grandmother
Gilmore saw the whole thing
& said, Arthur, if you do not
whip Willie, I shall whip you.
It’s always better to whip than
to be whipped, so I took the fight
straight to the bigger boy. Not long
after, fighting became a way
to make money: on the Galveston
docks, the fresh smell of fish
& stevedores sweating out lunchtime
booze. Thirteen & I was already strong
enough to toss a cotton bale out
of the way like it was a bad idea
& I could jump five feet backward
from flat feet. My fists weren’t good
of beatings that made me want
to go back to the schoolhouse.
They laughed while they put it on
me & seagulls circled us thinking
there must be fish in the middle
of such a fracas. Those lunchtime
brawls taught me to mix it up outside
the gentleman’s rules—quick
punches to the manhood, stomped
toes when cornered, eye gouges
to get out of a headlock. Of course,
I always abide by the rules inside
of the ring. Those dock fights were
more about survival than winning.
THE MANLY ART OF SELF-DEFENSE
Chrysanthemum Joe visited Galveston
to “instruct” in the art of self-defense
since prize fighting was against the law
in Texas back then. Joe was a dandy
dressed up as a prize fighter. A sport
with blond waves, a little too comfortable
in his bright red costume. Joe looked
small, but I heard he hit Jim Jeffries
so hard the bigger man’s teeth came out
through his lip. Jeffries once kept a grizzly
as a pet, so what does that say about Joe’s
disposition? It didn’t matter that Joe’s
hair stayed fixed in place like he used
macassar oil or that he looked like he
would rather be at a poetry recitation.
Our meeting was the shortest fight
of my career. The man pursued me
like it was personal & I went down
in the third thanks to a hard left to my eye.
His fists were so fast I’m still looking
for them. I was up quick, but the rangers
stampeded the ring, six-shooters gleaming
in the lights. Joe & I ended the evening
in the crossbar hotel. Lucky for us,
Sheriff Thomas enjoyed the fistic science
& “suggested” we spar to pass the time.
No ring, no gloves—just an abundance
of split lips & name-calling. Joe instructed
me during those long, gloveless brawls.
Right-hand leads, snake-strike lefts—
all while working to duck the other
man’s fists. He told me, A man that can
move like you should never take a punch.
THE SHADOW KNOWS
From day one, we aspire
to be more than the average
Negro. None of that yassah,
boss & watermelon rind
smile for us. We want quail
cooked in butter. We want
gold where that gap tooth
should be. Clarity for Negro
caricature. We want high-
styling clothing, gold rings
on our fingers like Greek
architecture, & gold pocket
watches in our vest coats.
More women than coats.
White women in our architecture.
We want peculiar & instinctual
satisfactions. We want to be
prize fighting’s main attraction:
the Heavyweight Champion
of the World. When we rise up,
the whole Negro race rises up
with us. When we get to the top,
it’s just us. No use for Negroes
then, not even ourselves.
BLUES HIS SWEETIE GIVES TO ME
I was out-of-doors, eating snowballs
for dinner & sleeping by Lake Michigan.
Nights so cold even the Chicago police
weren’t up for rousting me. The soles
of my shoes so thin I could step on a dime
& tell whether it was heads or tails. If I
had a dime. Sparring with Frank Childs
was my first bit of Chicago luck. They
called Frank “The Crafty Texan,”
but I have yet to meet a colored Texan
who isn’t crafty. In the ring, Frank followed
me like I was the one who ran off with
his wife. He’d grab my shoulder with his left,
then hook my ribs with his right until his corner-
man pulled him off. I was smaller then
& couldn’t defense like I can now, & Frank
was a big man—grappling gloves & red eyes.
But when somebody told him I needed
a place to stay, he let me sleep on his floor.
I had to leave when his no-good wife decided
to come back. In the middle of the night,
the snow coming down so furiously even
the bricks in the buildings wanted shelter.
I spent that night seething underneath a statue
of General John A. Logan. It was so cold,
it seemed as if the bronze horse the general
sat on turned his head away from the wind.
SHADOW BOXING
Shadow, hard work
is the only way I’ll
get to the heavyweight
championship. That’s
why I’m the one
fighter in Philadelphia
doing roadwork on
Saturday night. I’m
the only one chasing
these chickens & doing
calisthenics in the gas-
light. I could be on
the town, a pretty lady
in my lap & my arm
around another. Instead,
I’m sparring with you
while other fighters
are out two-stepping.
Ring the bell, Mr. Might-
Be Negro Champion.
I got this dance.
PRIZE FIGHTER
I love horses because they will outrun
the fastest man. They are majestic,
as stately as a Saturday woman
before a party. Horses smell like what
it means to be fast: sweat & gravel
kicked up on early morning runs.
The in & out of breath like gravel
in tired lungs. I groomed & raced
horses from Texas to Philadelphia until
one broke my leg bone with a back
kick. Thanks to that break, I can’t ride
anymore. Even if I could, we’ve got
these automobiles now that can carry
us a mile in a minute & I’m buying
the fastest one I can find once
I
get my money together. I’m like
an automobile in the ring. My fists
work like cranked-up engines. I’ve got
the kind of elasticity other fighters
dream about after I put them to sleep
on the canvas. When I clinch a man,
it’s like being swaddled in forgiveness.
When I hook a man, it’s like being hit
by frustration. I can’t tell if horses
are happy or confounded by the new
means of locomotion, but I can say
with certainty my prize fighting cohorts
are decidedly dissatisfied by my presence.
FISTICUFFS
Some reporters say I fight yellow,
but I don’t need to use the dirty tricks.
I don’t rabbit-punch a man’s manhood
like Mexican Pete or gouge an eye
like Klondike. Their kind of fighting
isn’t boxing at all. It’s like trying to sell
a toothless man a gum shield. I wait
for the punch instead, move to one side,
then punch back: a left hook straight
to the temple. I named the punch
after the first woman I loved: Clara.
No man met my Clara & was still standing
to talk about it. The woman quit me,
took my jewels & my roll with her.
I took a train all the way to St. Louis
to get her back, just so she could take
the rest of my money & leave again.
Clara is the reason I don’t deal with
colored women anymore. I never had
a colored girl that didn’t two-time me.
WEIGH-IN
SPORTING LIFE
People are always talking about if
& suppose like those words are worth
more than money, more than the crease
a silk stocking makes on a woman’s
thigh. More than the grumble of a Thomas
Flyer engine. So I take the side of my
pleasures. Two small words, if & suppose,
& nobody can explain them. We get
in this world what we’re going to get.
After all, one man can roll out of bed
& be killed, while another man falls
from a scaffold & lives. A man can get