Last August in 2025, Cornelius Eady was going to read at Poets House, but it was too damned hot and the date was changed to September the 7th. On the 7th, as I walked to the reading, it began to rain really hard and I arrived soaking wet. But it was worth it.
I was happy to hear Eady begin by reading his Phyllis Wheatley poems, which I’d heard him read several years earlier at KGB. To me they seem important, and the Vimeo that follows also includes poems inspired by Billie Holiday, and a tour de force performance by the Cornelius Eady Group. Enjoy.
Over the years, the decades now, Cornelius Eady has organized readings in NYC at Poets House and Cave Canem, taught the art of poetry here and abroad, and encouraged and promoted the work of many others. I think of this sort of work as invisible, so I want to give him a shout out. Some might not know that Cornelius Eady is there, but all should be thankful that he is and was; and he isn’t invisible really because he has one of the sincerest most welcoming smiles around.
For anyone interested in reading him, I’d suggest Hardheaded Weather, a book of new and selected poems that gives any reader a good idea of the impressive range of this poet.
Just for the heck of it, I will type a few of the poems from Hardheaded Weather below. Again, enjoy.
Outside
Under the cold wafer of moon, The stars, scattershot over the roof: The slugs, the worms, the eggs, The stings, the mandibles, the hunger For wood, the spit that rots the leaf, The poison skins, the needle beaks, The urge for breakage and blood, A sack of jeweled larvae under the bark, A rogue seed poised for snow melt.
The time must come; those rookie wings Will stiffen for a breeze. They will hatch and skitter They will worm and bore under our clothes Everything we own, a prize.
Lucky House
The phone line has gone dead, But the hot water, after three weeks, Returns, and against this blizzard That walks its sloppy walk up the steps And onto the porch The lights burn, and the furnace coughs.
All night the snow washes against our house, Our small house, our lucky house, Under the bowing trees, A desk, lamp, spilling light from my window.
Translation
For a second I forget where I am, because I am half awake, On the bed,And the door to the Outside is Wide open,
And summer Has gauzed the air, And the sound of this Neighbor, trimming His lemon trees And vines,
Is so much like The sound of The neighbors In the States, Whacking the Lawn.
Saturday: and if The husbands Of Italy and New York State could meet, Mid-chorus. … How much would They already Understand Before they Were forced To babble?
The Later Songs of Billie Holiday
Her voice, rough Trick of will and breath, Erodes out. Even knowing She’s beyond all trouble now, It’s a worry To listen. The cabaret law, what Was it? Gone like spats.
Now her trumpet of a throat Begins to weed.
She works harder To convince these notes to stay To treat her right.
A Small Story That Involves Me
The two guys behind the kind of counter are black, But the point about Jackie Robinson (says one) is The man died a lot sooner than he ought: You know all the shit he swallowed, had To keep down. And we nod our heads, It’s just the three of us there, and I nod, Hey, you bet, you better believe, and there We are, waiting for my card to clear; not friends, Not strangers.
Success
I will stop dreaming now, Now that I finally made it. Outside I can hear the wind Rustling through the leaves of trees. I own those trees.
Insomnia.
You’ll never sleep tonight. Trains will betray you, cars, confess Their destinations,
Whether you like it Or not.
They want more Than to be in Your dreams.
They want to tell you A story.
They yammer all night and then The birds take over. Jeering as only The well rested can.
Newborn
Give me a moment To get my bearings.
This must be the modern world. At least everything Is in the right place.
At least everything is moving. In my last life Nothing moved. Everything was pulled By strings.
Before I forget everything I’d like to pay homage to the dead. Before I forget whom to thank I’d like to thank my peers Who decided The world could use Another beggar.
I know I’m crying But I’m happy to be here. Give me a moment To get used to it all Again.
Hardheaded Weather is published by Penguin Random House and you will find it in the link below:
