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Molly warned me about her when we were freshman. Raynor told me that Patricia Smith was amazing, and I ought to experience her work. I was not skeptical, merely careless; thus five years later, I am reading Smith for the first time.

The first work I encountered was "Building Nicole's Mama". I was pleased because I rarely read non-black book bloggers, blogging about books written by black authors. And, prior to this moment, I never read a book review of a black poet, on a non black person's book blog. This alone caught my eye.

Within two days I was on the third floor of Barnes & Nobel searching for Tea House of the Almighty. Upon finding it, I stumbled to the floor. My back successfully found the bookcase and I entered another world.

So of the three contemporary poets recently highlighted on The Black Bookshelf she will be the fourth, because rules are made to be broken. (Or at least, tampered with.)

If you have the opportunity to hear her speak, seize it. If you stumble upon her book in a store, read it. If nothing else, take a few minutes to experience the beauty of the poem excerted below.

excerpts from MAD RAPPIN'
by Patricia Smith

I always shudder when I pray.

Mama says the Lord enters you in stages,
first like a match lit under your skin,
then like an animal biting through bone
with soft teeth. Mama say lie still
and wait for glory to consume you,
wrap its way into your map
like a lover had his finger on paradise,
knew the way with all his heart, then lost it.
I always shudder when I pray,
so your name must be a prayer.
Saying your name colors my mouth,
frees loose this river, changes my skin,
turns my spine to string. I pray all the time now.
Amen.

Try not to touch me while I tell this.
Try not to brush the thick tips of your fingers
against my throat while my throat moves
telling this story. Don't suddenly squeeze
my bare shoulder or travel your mouth
along the flat swell of my belly.
Don't bite at the hollow in my back,
whisper douch my angles,
or match our skin like spoons...

don't play me

that way

that way the saxman plays his woman,
blowing into her mouth till she cries,
allowing her no breath of her own.
Don't play me that way, baby, the way
the saxman plays his lady,
that strangling, soft muder-notes like bullets,
riffs like knives and the downbeat slapping
into her. and she sighs.
into her. and she cries.
into her.
and she whines like the night turning. ...

While they wait, I will dance with the saxman,
I will shimmer as he presses my keys.
Him and me boppin', we are wicked church.
So don't play, do not play, did you hear me tell you
not to play me that way?
(The way I want to be played.)

Mama say the Lord enters you in stages
(Play me that way)
First like a lit match under your skin
(Play me that way)
Then like an animal biting through bone with soft teeth
(Play me)
Mama say lie still and wait for glory
(that way)
to consume me
(that way)
Press my keys
(that way)
Press my keys
(that way)

Don't pay me no mind, lover.
I always shudder

when I pray. ( )