Frederick-Douglass Knowles II, an associate professor of English at Three Rivers Community College in Norwich, has been named the first poet laureate of Hartford.
Knowles is 45 and lives in the Parkville section of Hartford with his wife, Valerie. He grew up in Norwich, and his poetry collection, “BlackRoseCity” (2011, Authorhouse), focuses on many facets of growing up there. He is working on a new collection, dedicated to his granddaughter. One of his poems, “Mason Freeman Cut Jenkins Down,” was recently nominated for a Pushcart prize.
We talked to Knowles to get a picture of how he became a poet, his inspiration and his plans as poet laureate.
How he became a poet
While getting his bachelors in sociology at Eastern Connecticut State, Knowles took a course in which he had to read works by a lot of black writers.
“I read Nathan McCall’s ‘Makes Me Wanna Holler.’ I read ‘Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member’”
Those books showed him a world he hadn’t known before. He began seeking out works by authors of color.
“I never had actually read a lot of black authors. It really opened my mind up, ideas, feelings, concepts, questions, all in writing spilling out onto the page. I wanted to express myself, get my feelings out.”
Knowles also has a masters in English at Southern Connecticut State.
The birthplace of his poetry career
Knowles started coming to Hartford in his spare time, to hear poetry readings and slams at Signatures Café in Hartford. He decided he wanted to do them, too.
“I fell in love with the poetry scene here. Then in 2001, two friends, Summer Tate and Monique Jarvis, started a Hartford poetry slam team. I became passionate about performance poetry.
“In 2011, I was engulfed in academia. I moved back to Hartford to revitalize my artistic side. We moved to Manchester for two years to get away from city life, but last November I decided to come back.”
Knowles considers the capital city the birthplace of his poetry career.
“I wouldn’t be where I’m at in my writing and professional career if it wasn’t for me driving up here to collaborate with artists.”
The inspiration for ‘BlackRoseCity’
Norwich’s nickname is “The Rose of New England.” Growing up black in that city was not always rosy for nonwhites, the poet says, which led to “BlackRoseCity.”
The poetry collection “is about the black community and community of color, how they have been left out of the communal discussion. The poems are autobiographical and biographical experiences … about people who for one reason or another didn’t get the opportunities, the fair shake, that other people got. There is a cultural cloud over the area, metaphorically, swallowing up dreams.”
His plans as poet laureate
Knowles — who will receive a $3,000 stipend for the three-year laureate position — will kick off his laureate duties with the creation of Beat Lit, a youth outreach program.
“Beat Lit infuses literary arts with performing arts. It encourages youths to sharpen their skills and competencies to become writers.”
The project will focus on works by published authors to inspire young people. “I want to show them, here are another author’s feelings on the page, now you put your feelings on the page.
“I want to reach the kids who write on the school bus, thinking nobody wants to hear them, that they’re not important. But people do want to hear them. They are important.”
He also will do a reading at the Curioporium at 1429 Park St. in Hartford on Dec. 17 at 7 p.m. and a youth creative writing workshop titled “The Young Poetry of Tupac Shakur” at the Mark Twain House on Dec. 28. Grades 4 to 8 can attend from noon to 2 p.m. and grades 9 to 12 from 2:30 to 4:30 p.m. Admission is free and no registration is necessary. Details and a schedule of appearances at frederickdouglassknowles.com.
Examples of his poetry
His Last Name Mine
I enter Cedar Grove’s office
and extend the slit of sunlight
peering through a cracked door
lock eyes with an old sexton
inscribing names of fallen souls.
I stammer hello. Utter the silent
“K” in my last name. He flips
through an index of ancient files
brushes a layer of cumulus dust
from 1974, and engraves 56 R7 HK
onto the yellow surface of a Post-It.
I thank him for his time, slowly
exit his office and descend down
the hillside studying each pillar
in search of my father’s marker.
I pause in front of a pallid row
of ancient stone, flap the Post-It
over a cluster of ants, to unveil
the worn plaque of a Negroid
sailor. His last name mine.
Clouded tears recall the legacy
of an Airman recruit rigging chutes
for the USS Wright. A Native Son
swaying to Coltrane in Korean cafes
with cinnamon women, who never
choked on the plume of black smoke
sewn into his skin. Debating Truman’s
liberation of Yongsan that would churn
5 million Seouls into Korean dust.
Sonogram
Grandchild,
I see you coiled in your sanctum
cultivating through sonic resonance.
Your embryo shaped in the soul of Africa,
yet the size of a raspberry. Your heart
beats like Lumumba’s in the seed
of the Congo. Your mind bathes in a river
of Malian wisdom settling under the suns
of Timbuktu. Your sacral rest on a
Pretorian throne. Cape Verde
your pineal crown. Ethiopia
your Eden. Love your Kingdom.
What do you dream?
Your mother is beautiful. Born from
this lineage we will leave to you.
Your father maturates into manhood
(you will help him with this).
I will spoil you like a Baba. Teach you
how to fasten your breastplate, affix
your shield, and wield your sword
with precision. How to breathe
with a sonic boom. Model for you
how a warrior protects the Eden
they have not even began to utter
into being. Your Chi will cause
mountains to melt into mustard seeds
placed into your back pocket
to be planted in the fertile soil
of your grandchild’s mind,
as I will do for mine.
Emerie Enters Her Grandmother’s Garden
(Inspired by Alice Walker’s “In Search Of Our Mothers’ Gardens”)
A seed of sage
within my mother’s
womb
I attune
to a sacrament
of Psalms
poking praise
into cinnamon skin
moving to music
not yet written*
amid my Great-
Great Grandmother’s
Homegoing.
I resound
in twice told memories
of flowered vegetable
gardens whittled
from cracked earth
windswept hands
implanting turnips
to tulips
the southern soul
of a Cherokee-
Black blossom
bloomed
beyond the antebellum
aisle of Jim Crow.
Indigo engraved
in her palms
refusing to shrivel
like A Raisin
in the Sun.
I reap the harvest
of hallow dreams.
