{"product_id":"refuge","title":"Refuge","description":"\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan style=\"display: none;\"\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color: #000;\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: normal;\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003eAs an anthropologist, Adrie Kusserow’s ethnographic poetry probes culture and globalization with poems about Sudanese refugees based in Uganda, Sudan, and the United States, especially the “Lost Boys of Sudan.” The poet struggles with how to respond to suffering, poverty, displacement, and the brutal aspects of war. Much of this exploration is based in poems in which a mother is also bringing her family to a larger global arena.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003ch4\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003e“Lost Boy\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e”\u003c\/strong\u003e\n\u003c\/h4\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color: #000;\"\u003e\u003cem\u003eFor Gabriel Panther Ayuen\u003c\/em\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePanther sits inside his apartment,\u003cbr\u003eheat cranked up to 80, curtains closed,\u003cbr\u003ea pile of chicken boiling on the stove,\u003cbr\u003eslides another Kung Fu movie into the VCR,\u003cbr\u003esettles back into the smelly,\u003cbr\u003eswaybacked couch, a Budweiser between his legs.\u003cbr\u003eHe giggles.\u003cbr\u003eIn half an hour he’ll ride his bike\u003cbr\u003eto Walmart, round stray shopping carts\u003cbr\u003efrom the cracked gray lot,\u003cbr\u003ecrashing them back into their steel corrals.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt first they dropped by all the time,\u003cbr\u003ethe church ladies, the anthropologists,\u003cbr\u003ethe students, the local reporter.\u003cbr\u003eThey all left elated, having found something real,\u003cbr\u003elike yoga and organic food.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first Thanksgiving, three families booked him.\u003cbr\u003eLeaning hungrily across\u003cbr\u003ethe long white table,\u003cbr\u003ethey nibbled at his stories,\u003cbr\u003ehis lean noble life.\u003cbr\u003eOver and over he told them about lions,\u003cbr\u003ecrocodiles, eating mud and urine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe remembers joining\u003cbr\u003ea black river of boys,\u003cbr\u003etheir edges swelling and thinning\u003cbr\u003eas they wound their way\u003cbr\u003eover the tight-lipped soil, sun stuck to their backs.\u003cbr\u003eHe remembers dust mushrooming up\u003cbr\u003earound a sack of cornmeal as it thudded\u003cbr\u003eand slumped over, like a fat woman crying in the sand.\u003cbr\u003eAnd the Americans came alive, with a sad,\u003cbr\u003ecompassionate glow, a kind of sunset inside them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he got off the plane\u003cbr\u003ethe church ladies took him to a store,\u003cbr\u003ebought him fresh sneakers\u003cbr\u003esoft and white as wedding cake.\u003cbr\u003eThe next day he walked through whole aisles of dog food.\u003cbr\u003eTwo years later, November again,\u003cbr\u003ehe’s dropped out of high school—\u003cbr\u003ehe can’t take\u003cbr\u003ethe kids staring, the tiny numbers and letters\u003cbr\u003ehe can’t keep straight,\u003cbr\u003ethe basketball team he didn’t make\u003cbr\u003edespite his famous height.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow he looks like a too-tall gangster,\u003cbr\u003eall gold-chained and baggy-trousered.\u003cbr\u003eThe church ladies give him hushed looks:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cem\u003ewe regret to inform you, the path you’ve taken is not what we had hoped for.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’s channel-surfing,\u003cbr\u003elistening to Bob Marley on his Walkman,\u003cbr\u003ehis long legs awkwardly pushed out\u003cbr\u003eto each side, the way giraffes\u003cbr\u003esplit their stilts\u003cbr\u003eto drink water.\u003cbr\u003eAfrica’s moved inside him now,\u003cbr\u003eall cramped and bored, sleeping a lot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe cracks another beer\u003cbr\u003estarts to float,\u003cbr\u003ethe reggae flooding the vast blue-black continent\u003cbr\u003eof his body draped like a panther\u003cbr\u003eover the sides of the sofa.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis cousin calls, she needs more money,\u003cbr\u003eher son has malaria. She can’t afford school fees anymore.\u003cbr\u003eHis uncle gets on the phone to remind him to study hard,\u003cbr\u003ecome back and build a new Sudan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLater he stumbles into the bathroom\u003cbr\u003eto brush his teeth, inside him\u003cbr\u003egroggy Africa flinches at the neon light,\u003cbr\u003epaces, then settles in the corner\u003cbr\u003eof its den, paws pushing into the walls\u003cbr\u003eof his ribs with a dull pain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next morning he wakes,\u003cbr\u003estubborn Africa still shoved up against his ribs,\u003cbr\u003erefusing to roll over, into the middle\u003cbr\u003eof himself where he can’t feel it anymore,\u003cbr\u003einto some open place\u003cbr\u003ewhere he ends\u003cbr\u003eand America finally begins.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color: #000;\"\u003ePraise for \u003cem\u003eRefuge\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/h4\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color: #000;\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: normal;\"\u003e“The poems in Adrie Kusserow’s \u003ci\u003eRefuge\u003c\/i\u003e are dispatches from the world we live in but don’t often, if ever, have to think about. As I write this, Kusserow has stamped her passport to South Sudan, rolled up her sleeves, and continued her ongoing work in the larger world. Not only do the poems in \u003ci\u003eRefuge\u003c\/i\u003e serve to witness that which would otherwise be given to the erasures of history, they transcend borders and serve as bridges to a deeply human experience.”\u003cstrong\u003e—Brian Turner\u003c\/strong\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-family: 'Book Antiqua','serif';\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e“Whether we like to name them or not, there are responsibilities that the poet must be held to by her readers, and by the ancient chain of voices she makes claim to with the publication of a collection of poetry. Those responsibilities have to do with form, which means an understanding that prosody means a range of musical options, with language, that is, with a regard for words that allows the poet to make us see the world not in a new way, but as it always has been, right before our eyes, and with a keen regard for subject, in this case, one that is unhesitatingly autobiographical, and illustrative of a life interwoven with motherhood, and with an abiding commitment to critical development work in South Sudan. These are not two contrasting subjects someone chooses as ones vocation, but rather that one is chosen by, or better said, that Adrie Kusserow is possessed by, so that the best of these poems emerge from a need to have been written. They are bold and new and original in their emotional and geographic sweep of the human landscape. They are beautiful to feel on your mouth when you say them out loud.”\u003cstrong\u003e—Bruce Weigl\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kusserow's splendid verses bring us devastatingly close to the recent horrors of the southern Sudan and its lost boys. Her ethnographic gaze is compelling and her poems plunge us into unfamiliar social worlds, bringing us the news we need to know. Both anthropology and poetry stand enriched by her work.”\u003cstrong\u003e—Renato Rosaldo, author of \u003ci style=\"mso-bidi-font-style: normal;\"\u003eCulture \u0026amp; Truth\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAbout the Author\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/h4\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAdrie Kusserow is Professor of Cultural Anthropology at St. Michael’s College in Colchester, VT. She holds a Ph.D. in Social Anthropology from Harvard University and an M.A. in Comparative Religion from Harvard Divinity School. Her first poetry collection \u003ci style=\"mso-bidi-font-style: normal;\"\u003eHunting Down the Monk\u003c\/i\u003e was published by BOA Editions in 2002 and carried a Foreword by Karen Swenson. Her most recent international fieldwork trips support girls’ education (South Sudan – www.Africaeli.org) and Youth Media Literacy and Gross National Happiness in Bhutan. She lives with her family in Underhill Center, Vermont, where she was born and raised.\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 14px;\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color: #a52a2a;\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"availOrange\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color: #000;\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003ch6\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/h6\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e© BOA Editions, Ltd. 2013\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"BOA Editions, Ltd.","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":8420247749,"sku":"9781938160080","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0982\/0178\/products\/refuge_bookstore.jpeg?v=1527683330","url":"https:\/\/shop.boaeditions.org\/products\/refuge","provider":"Boa Editions","version":"1.0","type":"link"}