Amiri Baraka, one of the most important American poets of the last century, died today in New Jersey.
By nearly all accounts, including his obituary, Amiri Baraka was a difficult person. But I loved his words, and his crankiness, and the beauty with which he stitched them together.
Notwithstanding— or because of— the fact that rejected entire swaths of American life with enormous vigor, he was a distinctly American poet. The pounding, staccato rhythm of poems spoken out loud. The rising, sped-up, indignance that is prevalent in discourse everywhere. The belief that language could be messed with at any time. This is who we are. He was one of us.
I like difficult people. I always try to learn something from those who say ugly things, things I hate, things that make me cringe. Humans aren’t simple, and I like people who make me know that more closely. Make me feel something I might not want to. Amiri Baraka was a master at this.