All italic lines in this piece are taken from Marcus Wicker’s book, “Silence.” They are poetry, and they are power. Listen to them for what they say, listen to them for their sonic quality.
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“I can’t wait to write tonight because of you all,” the man in the smooth suit, tie and glasses says to us as he stands in the front of Harvey Hall, two of his books tucked under one arm and a glass of Jackson, Tennessee water on the podium in front of him.
This man is Marcus Wicker, poet, professor and all-around good person. Wicker was referring to the work of various area high-schoolers and Union students when he said “you all” –– he was at the annual West Tennessee Creative Writing Competition earlier in the day and had chosen the winners in the poetry section for Union students himself.
Beloved librarian, a barber with a business degree –– from “Watch Us Elocute”
Wicker spent much of his early life in Michigan, where he first discovered how poetry could affect him. In an interview with Ben Read of “The Adroit Journal,” Wicker says: “My journalism and American Lit teacher, Ms. Andrew, took our class to the first ever National Youth Poetry Slam (now Brave New Voices) at the University of Michigan. I saw teens my age writing inventively and bravely saying some of the same things I’d been thinking about the world, about the self. I thought, maybe I could do this. Maybe I could take writing seriously.”
Wicker eventually went on to earn an MFA from Indiana University, taught some at the University of Southern Indiana and eventually made his way to the University of Memphis a couple years ago, where he currently teaches in the MFA program. Over the course of his brief career so far, Wicker has won a Pushcart award, the National Poetry Series Prize and was a nominee for the NAACP Image Award. He’s accomplished, but he somehow manages to stay humble, if his day at Union University last Thursday, March 7, is any indication.
Grant me / a Moleskine pad & a ballpoint pen / with some mass –– from “Prayer on Aladdin’s Lamp”
After attending the awards ceremony for both regional high schoolers and Union students, Wicker had a reading from his two books: “Maybe the Saddest Thing” and “Silencer.” One of the more unique aspects of Wicker’s poetry is the influence of pop culture, especially African American pop culture. Wicker has a poem for Will Smith, one for Flavor Flav and many for the various minority victims of police brutality over the last few years. Wicker chooses not to name these victims as he wants to “speak about something without speaking directly about it.” His goal in these poems is to have the reader fill in the blanks themselves, forcing their imaginations to function as a symbiotic writer alongside Wicker himself.
I’ve been told the internet is / an unholy place––an endless intangible / stumbling ground of false deities, / dogma and loneliness, sad as a pile of shit / in a world without flies –– from “Ode to Browsing on the Web”
Wicker’s latest book, “Silence,” is one that deals with the harsh realities of being an African-American man in modern-day America. Wicker told the packed Harvey auditorium –– every seat filled, thirty people standing or sitting along the edges of the room –– that he started writing the book during discussions that he had with friends in Evansville, Indiana.
“Every time I brought up police brutality or gun violence, everybody started looking at their phones,” Wicker said. “It felt like I was being silenced, so I went home and wrote about that.”
Aside from his more political poems, Wicker writes about the power of prayer, cat videos on the internet, nature, the bourgeoisie and black Jesus. His poems are varied, and he has one for every person in every situation.
Wicker describes his own poetry in a myriad of ways: “productively uncomfortable” and “under the influence of John Donne” being two of the more comedic ones.
“You didn’t think I would end that that way, did you?” Wicker asked the audience after reading “Film Noir at Gallup Park, On the Edge.” “Neither did I.” Later during his reading, he warned everyone, “when you hear it, don’t trip.” Just like his poems, Wicker’s speaking style has a certain edge, a snarky humor overlaid with seriousness –– really something I shouldn’t be trying to define in this brief article.
Cashier holding my twenty up to the light to see if it’s real money. Like I’d be shopping at Walmart if I could counterfeit money. –– from “Blue Faces”
After the reading, senior English major Katie Chappell, senior Christian studies major Joel Holland and I sat in Barefoots, reading Wicker’s poetry, marvelling at the imagery, the lessons and the wit, while other students –– busy procrastinating by having conversations they deemed “deep,” illusions they maintained by using certain academic and theological buzzwords –– glared at us from their brown leather couches. The first sections of the day were over, but we still had the workshop to go.
At 2:45, Wicker joined Holland, Chappell, myself and several other students in D-54 of the PAC. Professor Bobby Rogers sat in as well, saying, “I’m just here to steal some of Marcus’ ideas for my own workshops.”
all / I am is a singing / saw through a bell / of flesh –– from “Incident with Nature, Late”
After introductions –– name, birthplace, major and last television show watched (“Schitt’s Creek” for me, “Umbrella Academy” for Chappell and Wicker) –– Wicker began the workshop, reading poems that he had chosen from the annual creative writing competition.
Danielle Chalker had a poem about a train ride, talking about everything she saw out of the windows; Joel Holland wrote an ekphrastic poem after Thomas Hart Benton’s “Engineer’s Dream”; and I wrote a sort of autobiographical poem called “Autobiography after Reading Zeno’s Paradox.” Wicker took each of these poems, then talked through them with everyone else in the room, talking first about what was good in each poem, and eventually getting into the more critical side, all in an effort to help us grow as poets.
ice pond in a patio table / Spotted face in an antiquated fable. –– from “The Most Dangerous Game”
Even after we finished workshopping these poems, Wicker wanted to spend more time with us, opening up the room for a Q&A session. We asked him about his early life, when he started writing poetry and what turning moments he had during his career. We kept this up until 4, eating snickerdoodles and sugar cookies that my wife –– Abbey –– made. (For the record, Wicker ate three of these cookies, a compliment I told Abbey as soon as I got home that night.)
Holland and I were invited to dinner with Wicker and several members of the English department, a perfect end to an amazing and encouraging day. For a couple hours, Holland and I felt as if we had graduated and moved onto the world of academia, an exciting vision into what will hopefully be the future. Throughout this dinner and the day, Wicker encouraged me and Holland in our writing. He liked our poetry and knew that this semester was one in which we felt like drowning men, struggling and using all of our oxygen and energy to barely break through the surface of the water and take another ragged breath before going back under. Riding home together, Holland and I talked about the glow we felt, a sense of happiness that came from affirmation and a day filled with beauty.
With Hells Angels Hair. Dark / as slavery: black magic-almighty –– from “Materialist Matins”
“Be a good literary citizen,” Wicker said to Harvey auditorium. “Even though there’s not much external reward in it.”
Ultimately, the way that we can learn, love and live as humans is through poetry, literature, art and music. Without these things, life would be an endless rat race, and nobody, least of all Marcus Wicker, wants that.
“My goal in poetry is to be chasing sounds,” Wicker said.
We should do this as well in our everyday lives.
