Natasha D Trethewey
Biographic Data
| ID | 1023045 |
|---|---|
| NAME | Natasha D Trethewey |
| GIVEN NAMES | Natasha D |
| FAMILY NAME | Trethewey |
| SIGNATURE | TRETHEWEY N D |
| VERIFIED | No |
| TOTAL WORKS | 22 |
| TOTAL CITATIONS | 4 |
| AUTHOR COUNT | 22 |
| EDITOR COUNT | 0 |
| FIRST PUBLICATION YEAR | 1996 |
| LATEST PUBLICATION YEAR | 2024 |
| H-INDEX | 1 |
The House of Being
On Close Reading
On Close ReadingYusef Komunyakaa's "White Lady" Natasha Trethewey (bio) In a 1999 review of Yusef Komunyakaa's collection, Thieves of Paradise, Kate Daniels takes the poet to task on an issue steeped in notions of both race and gender. Early on, Daniels picks up on the title's significance, noting that it "alludes not only to the theft of America by white Europeans" but also "to other historical narratives as well." And later, Daniels praises Kom…
Native Guard
"...if this war is to be forgotten, I ask in the name of all things sacred what shall men remember?" —Frederick Douglass November 1862 Truth be told, I do not want to forget anything of my former life: the landscape's song of bondage—dirge in the river's throat where it churns into the Gulf, wind in trees choked with vines. I thought to carry with me want of freedom though I had been freed, remembrance not constant recollection. Yes: I was born a…
What Is Evidence
Natasha Trethewey is author of two volumes of poems, Bellocq's Ophelia and Domestic Work. For her poetry, she has been awarded fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Bunting Fellowship Program of the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University. Her poems have appeared in such journals and anthologies as Callaloo, Kenyon Review, The Southern Review, New England Review, Gettysburg R…
Inscriptive Restorations
Natasha Trethewey. Photo by Brett Gadsden. [End Page 1022] This interview was conducted on May 28, 2004, at Texas A&M University in College Station, where Natasha Trethewey was teaching poetry writing in the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshops, whose faculty also included Forrest Hamer (poetry), Helen Elaine Lee (fiction), and Percival Everett (fiction). ROWELL: When I read your poetry, the first word that comes to my mind is restoration. Your pr…
Elegy for the Native Guards
Elegy for the Native Guards Natasha Trethewey Now that the salt of their blood Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea... —Allen Tate We leave Gulfport at noon; gulls overhead trailing the boat—streamers, noisy fanfare— all the way to Ship Island. What we see first is the fort, its roof of grass, a lee— half reminder of the men who lived there— a weathered monument to some of the dead. Inside we follow the ranger, hurried though we are to get to…
Southern Pastoral
Southern Pastoral Natasha Trethewey In the dream, I am with the Fugitive Poets. We're gathered for a photograph. Behind us, the skyline of Atlanta hidden by the photographer's backdrop— a lush pasture, green, full of soft-eyed cows lowing, a chant that sounds like no, no. Yes, I say to the glass of bourbon I'm offered. We're lining up now—Robert Penn Warren, his voice just audible above the drone of bulldozers, telling us where to stand. Say "Rac…
Delta Sharecroppers, 1930
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
Laying the Waves
Laying the Waves Natasha Trethewey (bio) —a photograph by George Butler It is almost dark, so dark that two bare bulbs glow like searchlights on either side of the room—a basement of masonry brick, pipes and wires hemming the roof, a wattle above the tall one’s head, him bending into his work, his afro grazing the ceiling. The other, sitting in an old barber chair, tilts his head and closes his eyes to it—barely a tingle now—the lye combed throug…
Deedywops
Deedywops Natasha Trethewey (bio) for Red It was easy, then, to be king of your turf, the schoolyard and that patch of earth so smooth a blue-green marble—thumb-shot to stand back—could jump then spin like a planet. Everyday a ritual. You and the boys, Dairy Dan, Ree Ree, and Keety Boy lagging, talking shit—those borrowed rites of men you’d watch come Saturday at the barbershop, your ears honed to nuance, the dozens, a signifying phrase. How you’…
An Interview with Natasha Trethewey
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
Secular
Secular Natasha Trethewey (bio) Work-week’s end and there’s enough block-ice in the box to chill a wash tub of colas and one large melon, dripping green. After service, each house opens heavy doors to street and woods— one clear shot from front to back, bullet, breeze, or holler. A neighbor’s Yoo hoo reaches her out back, lolling, pulling in wash, pillow slips billowing—her head in the clouds. Up the block, a brand new graphanola, parlor music, b…
Accounting
Accounting Natasha Trethewey (bio) Nights too warm for TV we’re flung outdoors to the porch, citronella candles scenting the space between us, our faces aglow in gold light. She crowds the card table with coin banks, an abacus, five and ten dollar rolling paper, our tidy ledger. I count, line the coins in neat rows, the abacus clicking out our worth, how much we can save, stack up against the seasons—winter coming, her tightly braided hair turnin…
The House Down the Street
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
Hot Comb
Hot Comb Natasha Trethewey (bio) Halfway through an afternoon of coca cola bottles sweating rings on veneered tabletops and the steel drone of window fans above the silence in each darkened room, I open a stiff drawer and find the old hot combs, black with grease, the teeth still pungent as burning hair. One is small, fine toothed as if for a child. Holding it, I think of my mother’s slender wrist, the curve of her neck as she leaned over the sto…
Expectant
Expectant Natasha Trethewey (bio) Nights are hardest, the swelling, tight and low (a girl), delta heat, and that woodsy silence a zephyred hush. So how to keep busy? Wind the clocks, measure out time to check the window, or listen hard for his car on the road. Small tasks done and undone, a floor swept clean. She can fill a room with a loud clear alto, broom-dance right out the back door, her heavy footsteps a parade beneath the stars. Honeysuckl…
Saturday Drive
Saturday Drive Natasha Trethewey (bio) for my mother Saturdays, Uncle Son drives slow; that ‘59, white-walled, cash-money cadillac—neighborhood El Dog—creeping down Highway 49 past the curb market liquor store car wash barber shop. Beside him, the girl folds lace gloves in her lap and smoothes the taped-down edges of a cigar box turned coin bank, a single slit in the top just big enough to look through and see nothing but dark. A right turn on I-…
Beginning
Beginning Natasha Trethewey (bio) At breakfast, the scent of lemons, just-picked, yellowing on the sill. At the table, a man and woman. Between them, a still-life: shallow bowl, damask plums in one square of morning light. The woman sips tea from a chipped blue cup, turning it, avoiding the rough white edge. The man, his thumb pushing deep toward the pit, peels taut skin clean from plum flesh. The woman watches his hands, the pale fruit darkening…
Closing Time
Closing Time Natasha Trethewey (bio) Before this, they were on opposite sides of the room. Between them, the pool table stretched green as promise, lampshades in silent agreement, fringe shimmying in yellow light. Closing time pulls them together, cars in procession, headlights filling each tree with silver leaves, and the picture-man selling quick memories, a dollar a piece. Their simple pose— the darkened bar behind them, behind the oiled light…
The Four Corners
The Four Corners Natasha Trethewey (bio) Nothing dies as slowly as a scene. The dusty jukebox cracking through the cackle of a beered-up crone— wagered wine—sudden need to dance . . . Richard Hugo In the empty lot, we are betting on recall, each long pull from the passed-around bottle a prelude to what comes back— burning at first—a lingering taste. Who can call it up, float scenes in color, the sound clear as a record's first notes, before the c…
History Lesson
History Lesson Natasha Trethewey (bio) I am four in this photograph standing on a wide strip of Mississippi beach, my hands on the flowered hips of a bright bikini. My toes dig in, curl around wet sand. The sun cuts the rippling Gulf in flashes with each tidal rush. Minnows dart at my feet glinting like switchblades. I am alone except for my grandmother, other side of the camera, telling me how to pose. It is 1970, two years after they opened the…
Calling His Children Home
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
On Close Reading
On Close ReadingYusef Komunyakaa's "White Lady" Natasha Trethewey (bio) In a 1999 review of Yusef Komunyakaa's collection, Thieves of Paradise, Kate Daniels takes the poet to task on an issue steeped in notions of both race and gender. Early on, Daniels picks up on the title's significance, noting that it "alludes not only to the theft of America by white Europeans" but also "to other historical narratives as well." And later, Daniels praises Kom…
Inscriptive Restorations
Natasha Trethewey. Photo by Brett Gadsden. [End Page 1022] This interview was conducted on May 28, 2004, at Texas A&M University in College Station, where Natasha Trethewey was teaching poetry writing in the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshops, whose faculty also included Forrest Hamer (poetry), Helen Elaine Lee (fiction), and Percival Everett (fiction). ROWELL: When I read your poetry, the first word that comes to my mind is restoration. Your pr…
An Interview with Natasha Trethewey
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
Calling His Children Home
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
Delta Sharecroppers, 1930
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
Laying the Waves
Laying the Waves Natasha Trethewey (bio) —a photograph by George Butler It is almost dark, so dark that two bare bulbs glow like searchlights on either side of the room—a basement of masonry brick, pipes and wires hemming the roof, a wattle above the tall one’s head, him bending into his work, his afro grazing the ceiling. The other, sitting in an old barber chair, tilts his head and closes his eyes to it—barely a tingle now—the lye combed throug…
Deedywops
Deedywops Natasha Trethewey (bio) for Red It was easy, then, to be king of your turf, the schoolyard and that patch of earth so smooth a blue-green marble—thumb-shot to stand back—could jump then spin like a planet. Everyday a ritual. You and the boys, Dairy Dan, Ree Ree, and Keety Boy lagging, talking shit—those borrowed rites of men you’d watch come Saturday at the barbershop, your ears honed to nuance, the dozens, a signifying phrase. How you’…
An Interview with Natasha Trethewey
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
Secular
Secular Natasha Trethewey (bio) Work-week’s end and there’s enough block-ice in the box to chill a wash tub of colas and one large melon, dripping green. After service, each house opens heavy doors to street and woods— one clear shot from front to back, bullet, breeze, or holler. A neighbor’s Yoo hoo reaches her out back, lolling, pulling in wash, pillow slips billowing—her head in the clouds. Up the block, a brand new graphanola, parlor music, b…
Accounting
Accounting Natasha Trethewey (bio) Nights too warm for TV we’re flung outdoors to the porch, citronella candles scenting the space between us, our faces aglow in gold light. She crowds the card table with coin banks, an abacus, five and ten dollar rolling paper, our tidy ledger. I count, line the coins in neat rows, the abacus clicking out our worth, how much we can save, stack up against the seasons—winter coming, her tightly braided hair turnin…
The House Down the Street
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
Hot Comb
Hot Comb Natasha Trethewey (bio) Halfway through an afternoon of coca cola bottles sweating rings on veneered tabletops and the steel drone of window fans above the silence in each darkened room, I open a stiff drawer and find the old hot combs, black with grease, the teeth still pungent as burning hair. One is small, fine toothed as if for a child. Holding it, I think of my mother’s slender wrist, the curve of her neck as she leaned over the sto…
Expectant
Expectant Natasha Trethewey (bio) Nights are hardest, the swelling, tight and low (a girl), delta heat, and that woodsy silence a zephyred hush. So how to keep busy? Wind the clocks, measure out time to check the window, or listen hard for his car on the road. Small tasks done and undone, a floor swept clean. She can fill a room with a loud clear alto, broom-dance right out the back door, her heavy footsteps a parade beneath the stars. Honeysuckl…
Saturday Drive
Saturday Drive Natasha Trethewey (bio) for my mother Saturdays, Uncle Son drives slow; that ‘59, white-walled, cash-money cadillac—neighborhood El Dog—creeping down Highway 49 past the curb market liquor store car wash barber shop. Beside him, the girl folds lace gloves in her lap and smoothes the taped-down edges of a cigar box turned coin bank, a single slit in the top just big enough to look through and see nothing but dark. A right turn on I-…
Beginning
Beginning Natasha Trethewey (bio) At breakfast, the scent of lemons, just-picked, yellowing on the sill. At the table, a man and woman. Between them, a still-life: shallow bowl, damask plums in one square of morning light. The woman sips tea from a chipped blue cup, turning it, avoiding the rough white edge. The man, his thumb pushing deep toward the pit, peels taut skin clean from plum flesh. The woman watches his hands, the pale fruit darkening…
Closing Time
Closing Time Natasha Trethewey (bio) Before this, they were on opposite sides of the room. Between them, the pool table stretched green as promise, lampshades in silent agreement, fringe shimmying in yellow light. Closing time pulls them together, cars in procession, headlights filling each tree with silver leaves, and the picture-man selling quick memories, a dollar a piece. Their simple pose— the darkened bar behind them, behind the oiled light…
The Four Corners
The Four Corners Natasha Trethewey (bio) Nothing dies as slowly as a scene. The dusty jukebox cracking through the cackle of a beered-up crone— wagered wine—sudden need to dance . . . Richard Hugo In the empty lot, we are betting on recall, each long pull from the passed-around bottle a prelude to what comes back— burning at first—a lingering taste. Who can call it up, float scenes in color, the sound clear as a record's first notes, before the c…
History Lesson
History Lesson Natasha Trethewey (bio) I am four in this photograph standing on a wide strip of Mississippi beach, my hands on the flowered hips of a bright bikini. My toes dig in, curl around wet sand. The sun cuts the rippling Gulf in flashes with each tidal rush. Minnows dart at my feet glinting like switchblades. I am alone except for my grandmother, other side of the camera, telling me how to pose. It is 1970, two years after they opened the…
Calling His Children Home
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
Native Guard
"...if this war is to be forgotten, I ask in the name of all things sacred what shall men remember?" —Frederick Douglass November 1862 Truth be told, I do not want to forget anything of my former life: the landscape's song of bondage—dirge in the river's throat where it churns into the Gulf, wind in trees choked with vines. I thought to carry with me want of freedom though I had been freed, remembrance not constant recollection. Yes: I was born a…
What Is Evidence
Natasha Trethewey is author of two volumes of poems, Bellocq's Ophelia and Domestic Work. For her poetry, she has been awarded fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Bunting Fellowship Program of the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University. Her poems have appeared in such journals and anthologies as Callaloo, Kenyon Review, The Southern Review, New England Review, Gettysburg R…
Inscriptive Restorations
Natasha Trethewey. Photo by Brett Gadsden. [End Page 1022] This interview was conducted on May 28, 2004, at Texas A&M University in College Station, where Natasha Trethewey was teaching poetry writing in the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshops, whose faculty also included Forrest Hamer (poetry), Helen Elaine Lee (fiction), and Percival Everett (fiction). ROWELL: When I read your poetry, the first word that comes to my mind is restoration. Your pr…
Elegy for the Native Guards
Elegy for the Native Guards Natasha Trethewey Now that the salt of their blood Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea... —Allen Tate We leave Gulfport at noon; gulls overhead trailing the boat—streamers, noisy fanfare— all the way to Ship Island. What we see first is the fort, its roof of grass, a lee— half reminder of the men who lived there— a weathered monument to some of the dead. Inside we follow the ranger, hurried though we are to get to…
Southern Pastoral
Southern Pastoral Natasha Trethewey In the dream, I am with the Fugitive Poets. We're gathered for a photograph. Behind us, the skyline of Atlanta hidden by the photographer's backdrop— a lush pasture, green, full of soft-eyed cows lowing, a chant that sounds like no, no. Yes, I say to the glass of bourbon I'm offered. We're lining up now—Robert Penn Warren, his voice just audible above the drone of bulldozers, telling us where to stand. Say "Rac…
On Close Reading
On Close ReadingYusef Komunyakaa's "White Lady" Natasha Trethewey (bio) In a 1999 review of Yusef Komunyakaa's collection, Thieves of Paradise, Kate Daniels takes the poet to task on an issue steeped in notions of both race and gender. Early on, Daniels picks up on the title's significance, noting that it "alludes not only to the theft of America by white Europeans" but also "to other historical narratives as well." And later, Daniels praises Kom…
The House of Being
Art (20 works) · Art history (20 works) · History (19 works) · Visual arts (14 works) · Publishing and Scholarly Communication (11 works) · Archaeology (8 works) · Literature (7 works) · Poetry (6 works) · Psychology (5 works) · American Literature and Culture (3 works)