By Troy Body

www.troybody.com

The funny thing about the arts is that anyone, anywhere, can declare themselves an artist. Consequently, anything they do is therefore considered art. It can cause a lot of problems and often diminishes art in its purest form to something less than it should be.

But when you meet a real artist, you know it.

Frank X Walker is a poet. He is a poet first – and, like me, a black, Appalachian, thereafter. He is serious about poetry – and, through him – we have learned poetry is serious business.

Few artists from the mountains have used the hills as successfully as a springboard to something as important as poetry as Frank X Walker.

(Stop! Do not write to me about every country and Bluegrass musician you can name and say that I am slighting them. In this space, no one gets slighted. I respect those artists too – but, this is poetry in its purest form. A whole ‘nother art form.)

Frank coined the phrase “Affrilachia.” A word that, the moment you hear it, is a leveling wind which moves the stillness. It links a place, the mighty Appalachian Mountains, unabashedly to a people, the African Americans who reside there, all at once.

From his biography we learn he is a “founding member of the Affrilachian Poets, he is the editor of America! What’s My Name? The “Other” Poets Unfurl the Flag (Wind Publications, 2007) and Eclipsing a Nappy New Millennium and the author of four poetry collections: When Winter Come: the Ascension of York (University Press of Kentucky, 2008); Black Box (Old Cove Press, 2005); Buffalo Dance: the Journey of York (University Press of Kentucky, 2003), winner of the 35th Annual Lillian Smith Book Award; and Affrilachia(Old Cove Press, 2000), a Kentucky Public Librarians’ Choice Award nominee. He is also the proud editor and publisher of PLUCK! the new Journal of Affrilachian Art & Culture. ”

But enough talk, let’s see him in action. Mr. Walker e-mailed me his latest poem:

Don’t Call Me Ishmael.

Hard time didn’t make Brother wiser
like it did Etheridge Knight.
He returned home from prison
with a pocket full of excuses not poems.
You’d thought he’d read Moby Dick
while on lock down, the way he chased
his great whites
each encounter separating him
like Ahab from his leg
–first from his own children
and eventually from himself.
Regret is for families forgiving enough
to break their own promises
not realizing that even if the harpoon
is made of love, it can still drag
the whole house down with the whale.
We might have understood revenge
and even obsession, but addiction
is more unforgiving than the sea.

(Copyright Frank X Walker)

Or this poem, taken from his book Affrilachia – Poems by Frank X Walker:

In Hell Exhale

if you listen to a woman breathe
she’ll tell you exactly
what she’s looking for
or if she’s looking
at all
what she wants
what she needs
right there
in that light year
between breaths
she will draw you a picture
a picture so real
you can become a part
of the very things she desires
or choose to steal away
before the dawn
if you stay
train up your ears
because what she wants
needs or desires
is subject to change
in a heartbeat
but always remember
if you commit
be sure
and hold your ground
but never
ever
hold
your breath
because be sure
she’s also listening
to you

(Copyright Frank X Walker)

The depth of Frank’s talent, mission, world view and purpose far exceed the reach of my little Web site. That said, it is my wish, to interview him very soon. I want to be able to relay an understanding of what it is he hopes to accomplish — in the very shadow of the mountains where one can only find the Affrilachian Poets.

(For more information, please go to www.frankxwalker.com)