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INTRODUCTION

by Russell Banks

Take the title, Mi Revalueshanary Fren, and silently say it, and hear yourself saying it. Then open the book at random to any one of these extraordinary poems, and do the same. Say the poem, and hear yourself saying it. You’ll have answered the question that most contemporary English language readers, accustomed as they are to reading poetry strictly with their eyes instead of with their ears and mouths, might otherwise have shyly (or perhaps defensively) asked themselves, How best to read this work? The answer should be obvious, I suppose. For thousands of years human beings have best experienced poetry as song. What we happen to see printed on paper (or inscribed on vellum, papyrus or clay tablet) merely cues our ears and mouths, and if it’s good poetry, we hear music and sing a song not of our own making.

More than nearly any other contemporary English-language poet (I’ll come back to that categorization in a moment), Linton Kwesi Johnson writes poems that make us sing with a voice that mingles our intimate own with a stranger’s, the poet’s, intimate own. And inasmuch as the poet is a representative man or woman (and Johnson is indeed one, a true people’s poet), we end up singing a people’s song. Poetry, at its best, is the most humanizing art. It links one’s secret solitary self to the secret solitary self of another and from that other to the species; it is the antithesis of solipsism, the negation of narcissism. As my friend, the late poet William Matthews, used to say, “Sorry, Narcissis, there is someone else.” And the poetry of Linton Kwesi Johnson—or LKJ, as he’s known to much of the world—confirms it. In “If I Woz a Tap–Natch Poet” Johnson says he’d write us a poem “soh dyam deep / dat it bittah-sweet / like a precious / memari / whe mek yu weep / whe mek yu feel incomplete.”

He is, of course, a top-notch poet, and his bitter-sweet poems can indeed make us weep, make us feel incomplete. In 2002 he became the second living and the first black poet to have his selected poems published in England in the Penguin Classics series. He is Jamaican by birth, and though he has resided for most of his adult life in England, where he took a university degree in sociology, he writes in Jamaican creole. Not a dialect, not strictly a “patois,” either, and not a mere post-colonial version of Standard English, Jamaican creole is a language created out of hard necessity by African slaves from 17^th century British English and West African, mostly Ashanti, language groups, with a lexical admixture from the Caribe and Arawak natives of the island. It is a powerfully expressive, flexible and, not surprisingly, musical vernacular, sustained and elaborated upon for over four hundred years by the descendants of those slaves, including those who, like LKJ, have migrated out of Jamaica in the second great diaspora for England, Canada, and the United States. Fortunately, its grammar and orthography, like that of pre-18th century British English, have never been rigidly formalized or fixed by an academy of notables or any authoritative dictionary. It is, therefore, a living, organically evolving language, intimately connected to the lived experience of its speakers.

Looking for an English literary context, critics have sometimes compared Johnson to John Clare, presuming perhaps a similarly provincial naiveté, which at best misreads him and at worst condescends. When I read him, however, I hear the great Renaissance song-poets like Skelton, Wyatt and Herrick, many of whose poems were set to music and meant to be performed; I hear the Caledonian folk music of Robert Burns, and note the linguistic parallels in relation to British English between Burns’ Gaelic brand of English and LKJ’s Jamaican creole. One thinks of Emily Dickinson, who, for the sub-strata of her poems, relied on the metrics and diction of those old New England Protestant hymns. Or one is reminded of Langston Hughes, Amiri Baraka and Michael Harper in their dedicated use of the modalities of the blues and jazz. Among recent English-language poets one might compare him to Paul Muldoon who, no surprise, is Irish, not English, has written opera libretti and is a part-time rock musician, and whose poems, like LKJ’s, touch us quickest when read with ear and mouth. The point is that, from the 16^th century forward, poets writing in every available variant of the English language have had easy access to a rich tradition that is underwritten, as it were, by music; and it’s in this tradition, certainly not the romantic pastoral, that I would place LKJ.

In LKJ’s case, the music that underwrites his poetry is reggae. Literally, as well as literarily. Though he is known world-wide as a recording and performing reggae musician and dub-poet and can fill a stadium, the music, he says, “was not only a vehicle to take my verse to a wider audience but was organic to it, was born of it.” I first heard his name back in the late 1970s when I was living in Jamaica, and reggae was just beginning its conquest of the world music scene, and LKJ was a prominent member of the London-based cadre of Jamaican reggae artists. He was known as one of the first, and is surely still one of the best, dub-poets, and may in fact have coined the term in an article he wrote in 1977 in Race Today, where he says, “‘Dub-lyricism’ is a new form of (oral) music-poetry, wherein the lyricist overdubs rhythmic phrases on the rhythm background of a popular song.” But he wrote poetry for the page as well, and unbeknownst to me had published books before he began making records, and had made several important strictly literary decisions that he has hewed to ever since. “I wanted to write poetry that was accessible to those whose experiences I was writing about, namely the black community . . . I wanted to write oral poetry that could hold the interest of the reader as well as the listener. I heard music in language and I wanted to write word-music, verse anchored by the one-drop beat of reggae with meter measured by the bass line or a drum pattern; I wanted to write lines that sound like a bass line.” For these purposes, Jamaican creole was the ideal, perhaps the only, language. And the rich Jamaican oral tradition, steeped in folk songs and Anancy tales, rhyming games and riddles, religious songs and proverbs and, of course, the King James Bible, became his mother-lode of imagery and narrative structure and intent. A home-grown music, a mother-tongue, and a mother-lode: one could do worse; one could not do much better.

It’s also useful to know that Johnson “came to poetry through politics,” the politics of black liberation in England and America in the late 1960s and 1970s. Like most Afro-Caribbean intellectuals of his generation, he had to step outside the university and the English literary canon in order to encounter the work of writers whose experiences of race and racism corresponded to his own. He joined the British Black Panthers, and through the Panthers he discovered and then began to explore the vast continent of literature by black authors about black people—at that time a subterranean literature, by and large, even in America. Trained in sociology, he eagerly devoured the writings of W. E. B. Dubois and C. L. R. James, but one book from that period was of special eye- and ear-opening importance to him, as it was to so many of us: Black Poetry, edited by Dudley Randall, published in 1969 by Broadside Press. There he read for the first time the poems of Countee Cullen, Jean Toomer, Langston Hughes, and Claude McKay, as well as his near-contemporaries, Leroi Jones (Amiri Baraka), Sonia Sanchez, and Gwendolyn Brooks. Later, under the guidance of the older Jamaican poet, Andrew Salkey, then living in England, and in the pages of Caribbean journals like Savacou and BIM, and in the publications and on the shelves of the late John La Rose’s and Sarah White’s publishing house and bookshop, New Beacon Books, he immersed himself in the poetry of Caribbean writers like Aimé Césaire, Derek Walcott, and Kamau Brathwaite.

One can sense the presence of all these writers and influences in Johnson’s work and often even locate it exactly in this poem or that. And yet he is like no one else writing today. There is a ludic quality to the language and structure of his poems, a determined, ironic playfulness that cuts against the rage and grief that brings the poet to write in the first place. Whether it’s a ballad (“Inglan Is a Bitch”) or a dramatic monologue (“Sonny’s Lettah”) or an elegy (the four “Reggae fi . . .” poems), or a poem that brings us the news from the street like a ten-penny broadside tacked to a post (“Street 66,” “Five Nights of Bleeding,” “New Craas Massakah”), the poems of Linton Kwesi Johnson are as redemptive and life-affirming as the blues.