The Paris Review

The Art of Poetry No. 107


In an era when poetry is increasingly compressed to fit our iPhone screens, Nathaniel Mackey has been writing two astonishing long poems—“Mu” and Song of the Andoumboulou—across multiple books for the past thirty-five years. “Mu” and Song of the Andoumboulou are two ongoing sequences beaded with his insights on cosmology, grief, ancestry, migration, and black life. The utterance mu suggests “mouth,” “myth,” but also “muse,” whereas Mackey defines Andoumboulou, taken from Dogon myth, as “a rough draft of human being, the work-in-progress we continue to be…. The song of the Andoumboulou is one of striving, strain, abrasion, an all but asthmatic song of aspiration.”

Perhaps more than any other contemporary poet, Mackey is deeply inspired by jazz, especially Ornette Coleman, Miles Davis, Don Cherry, and John Coltrane, all of whom informed his belief that black ontology need not be tied to testimony or narrative but can be felt through what Mackey calls “a communication of inference.” This language is improvisatory, paratactic, his lyric strands drifting through time, place, and persona. Mackey is also inspired by an avant-garde lineage of poets ranging from William Carlos Williams to Robert Duncan, as well as by his friends, the poets Fred Moten and Ed Roberson. Mackey’s poems are hypnotic praises, dirges, feverish dream songs of an unnamed diasporic voyage, songs that are always reaching for, but never arriving at, a destination.

Born in Florida in 1947 and raised in a working-class family in Southern California, Mackey attended Princeton to study math and instead turned to poetry. Afterward, he studied at Stanford, where he earned a Ph.D. in literature. His first chapbook, Four for Trane, was published in 1978. His most well-known collection, Splay Anthem, won the 2006 National Book Award, and his work has been recognized with other prestigious awards, including the Bollingen Prize and the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize. Mackey has published two books of criticism, Discrepant Engagement: Dissonance, Cross-Culturality, and Experimental Writing (1993) and Paracritical Hinge: Essays, Talks, Notes, Interviews (2005), and five other books of prose, the most recent being the epistolary novel Late Arcade (2017). Mackey taught at the University of California, Santa Cruz, for several decades and is now the Reynolds Price Distinguished Professor at Duke University.

We met in April 2016 in New York, both for this interview and to participate in an event where poets talked to local high school students. Mackey, who is tall with an upright, regal bearing, had on a black T-shirt and wore his long, graying dreads loose. While known for his formidable intellect, in person he is kind and down-to-earth. With the students, he was at ease, even playful. Asked about his influences, Mackey said, “I stole a lot from my kids, like, one of them said, ‘When can I go back to Chucky Jesus?’ That’s in my book.”

Our formal interview began after the visit, in front of an audience at the 92nd Street Y. It resumed a few days later in the lobby of his hotel in Midtown. We didn’t speak again until winter 2019, when we tied up the interview over email. During that gap, Mackey’s concept of Andoumboulou—humans as rough draft, man’s inhumanity to man—gained urgency in the face of rising fascism and accelerating climate change. But it also continues to offer the distant and gnostic hope that our struggle is cyclical and ongoing, and that if and when we are gone, there will be something else.


How did Andoumboulou start?


In the early seventies, when I was working at a radio station in Northern California, KTAO in Los Gatos, I found an album of Dogon music in the station’s library, Les Dogon, which had funeral songs on one side, and one of them was “Song of the Andoumboulou.” I was struck by the quality of voice in the singing. It has a raspy sound to it that appealed to me. And then there was the business of the deceased being reborn in another world, which is marked by a trumpet blare. There were these very textured tonalities that have a kind of braiding quality to them. Before I really knew more about the Andoumboulou—there was very little about them in the liner notes—I was invested in that particular song and that particular title.

I was beginning to be attracted to writing in series, writing sets, so I decided to stay with that in a set or series called Song of the Andoumboulou. It would be made up of poems that roughly have to do with mortality and sexuality and with the kinds of symbolic counters that are used to talk about them.


The first line in Andoumboulou is, “The song says the/dead will not/ascend without song.” When you’re talking about mortality, is this a kind of remembering?


Yes, it’s a kind of remembering. The song does remember the deceased, and it’s the song that helps the deceased move on—to ascend, in the words of the poem, to the next life. I wanted to take that and apply it to senses of transition and, hopefully, ascendance within life, moments where one feels one has to move on and move up. I didn’t know it would become an ongoing, theoretically endless series—


Did you think it was going to last thirty-plus years?


No, I didn’t (1985), which ends with an eight-poem set called . I mean, here you have something that’s called , suggesting seven, but it’s got eight poems, it’s comprised of eight. It’s already dealing with senses of insufficiency and surplus. That disequilibrium keeps things in motion, ongoing.

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