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Amiri Baraka:An Interview

Kimberly W. Benston
Benston: There seem to be two distinct notions current about the shape
of your total career as a poet. One holds that sometime in the mid-Sixties
you made a complete break from the traditions, modes, and ideas which
had concerned you. The other view sees more continuity between the
young LeRoi Jones and the mature Amiri Baraka. How would you assess
your career in these terms?
Baraka: There is certainly a line of development, but it's from a lower to a
higher stage of awareness - hopefully. There are certain things I write now
that echo earlier concerns, and certain things that have been transformed
altogether, that have changed into their opposites.
Benston: What kinds of things?
Baraka: Well, for instance, I was always, from the first poem that I ever
had printed, concerned with national oppression - what it did to me
mentally, spiritually, what it turned people into, what one's reaction to
national oppression was, etc. Being black has certainly remained a
constant; but my ability to explain the sources and origins of national
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oppression has deepened. What you said in your book about my essay on
black writers ["The Myth of a 'Negro Literature' "] was quite accurate:
there was a dichotomy there. I condemned black writing because black
writers all wanted to style themselves after the white bourgeoisie. I felt
that what they wrote wasn't actually black literature in the first place; it
was an imitation. Which was true, to a certain extent. What I, of course,
did not look at was the class structure operating behind black writing. So
then I said that the reason that black music is strong is because it was
directly black, it was coming from black people, there wasn't a whole lot
of fakery or trying to make believe they were really white middle-class
folks playing an instrument. But the incorrect thing in the essay was not
clearly making a class analysis all the way through. For instance, I held up
Melville and Joyce as great writers - and I think it is true that Melville and
Joyce are certainly better than Phyllis Wheatley or Charles Chesnutt, that's
accurate enough - but the analysis was not clear. So at times it looks as
though I'm just putting down black literature, when in reality I was trying
to make a very exact class analysis of why this middle-class black literature
was weak, why black music was strong. Then I definitely didn't make a
class analysis of Melville and Joyce, and show their weak and strong
points.
Benston: Was this a function of not having the proper theoretical tools at
your disposal?
Baraka: It was not having read thoroughly enough.
Benston: Would it be conceivable to go back and take something like
"The Myth of a 'Negro Literature' " - or the early poems or The System
of Dante's Hell - and develop the central points from your present
position?
Baraka: What I would want to do is look at the various volumes and make
criticisms; I want to do self-criticism of my own work.
Benston: How would you do a self-criticism, for example, of The System

of Dante's Hell?
Baraka: Well, first of all, in terms of form, it tended at times to be
obscure. The reason for that is that I was really writing defensively. I was
trying to get away from the influence of people like Creeley and Olson. I
was living in New York then and the whole Creeley-Olson influence was
beginning to beat me up. I was in a very closed, little circle - that was
about the time I went to Cuba - and I felt the need to break out of the
type of form that I was using then. I guess this was not only because of the
form itself but because of the content which that form enclosed, which
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was not my politics. The two little warring schools that were going on then
were what I call the Jewish-Ethnic-Bohemian School (Allen Ginsberg and
his group) and the Anglo-German Black Mountain School. I was caught
between the two of them because they were all my friends and we were all
literary buddies and so forth. So I wrote the novel defensively and
offensively at the same time because I was trying to get away. I literally
decided to write just instinctively, without any thought to any form or to
any kind of preunderstanding of what I was shaping - just write it down.
Benston: It was a consciously improvisational art?
Baraka: Exactly; and I developed a theory about what I was doing. I
would think of what I was saying, then write all the things that thinking
about that made me think of, always suggesting those things, never stating
them outright.
Benston: In the novel itself you termed your method a combination of
"fast narrative" and "association complex." One wonders whether you
had in mind Joycean stream-of-consciousness and/or jazz modulation.
Baraka: Both, really. Having read the Joyce, I knew what that was, that it
was in the world, that it existed. And the jazz was there, too, of course.
They were both part of the condition from which my ideas were coming.
What I was trying to do, without saying exactly, "This is what I am
saying" - because, at that time, for me to say that would have come out
as Creeley-Olson - was write all the associations and emotions connected
with what I was thinking about. I thought the result would then be
beyond whatever would come out ready-made and pat. As far as the
content is concerned, I would now criticize it for holding up the
subjective, for celebrating the subjective and the idealistic.
Benston: Did you feel that by the novel's end the narrator had moved
past that kind of suffocating subjectivism and had attained a sense of
otherness, or that he was a failure?
Baraka: Well, I thought that the very fact that at the end of the novel I
could write plain narrative meant that I had achieved, to a certain extent,
my goal: to get away from those influences. At the end, I felt comfortable
with the narrative for the first time. Do you see the difference? It wasn't
the little, stylized, Creeley-esque stuff that I was doing at the time; it
began to be my own kind of sound, my own voice. I felt more comfortable
with that, even though what I was relating, the story, was kind of
harrowing and grim, as far as the character's personal experience was
concerned. But I thought that the tale was of one particular thing that was
behind the teller, that the tale was in the past actually. The teller, having
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told that tale, not only moved past it and into the present, but was even at
a further stage of awareness.
Benston: So there is a development there?
Baraka: Oh yes.
Benston: And the epilogue reveals this?
Baraka: It's an attempt to sum it up and say clearly, in a kind of ex-post
form, "This is what this is."
Benston: In the early poetry, is there at any point an attempt to create
the same kind of clarity you achieved in System, to attain a similar
freedom from what you're calling the Creeley-Olson influence?
Baraka: The poetry of that period was still definitely relying heavily on
the Creeley-Olson thing. But, while the Creeley-Olson thing is still there in
the poetry's form, the content was trying to aggressively address the folks
around me, the people that I worked with all the time, who were all
Creeley-Olson types, people who took an antipolitical or apolitical line
(the Creeley types more so than Olson's followers - Olson's thing was
always more political). I was coming out saying that I thought that their
political line was wrong. A lot of the poetry in The Dead Lecturer is
speaking out against the political line of the whole Black Mountain group,
to which I was very close. That was a very interesting melange of folks in
New York at the time. You know we had the Black Mountain group, the
New York poets (O'Hara, Kenneth Koch, John Ashbery, Jimmie Merrill,
and those people), and then we had the Ginsberg group. So there were
three crowds. I was sort of tight with all of them, I hung out with all of
them; but the overwhelming line was always antipolitical. Or, when
politics did emerge, as in Olson's work, I didn't agree with it.
Benston: You felt kind of like a crowd of one....
Baraka: Right. And I think a lot of the poetry in that period, like the
political poem, "Short Speech to My Friends," is talking to those people
and to that particular sensibility that was denying the idea that politics
could in fact be incorporated into poetry.
Benston: Did the poem "Betancourt" and the "Cuba Libre" essay - the
works that grew directly from your Cuba experience - effect a
self-conscious turning point?
Baraka: Yes. See, when I went to Cuba, it was like a revelation to me.
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Suddenly, there I was in Cuba and, at first, I didn't understand that that
was real stuff, that people actually could make a revolution, that you
could actually seize countries. There I was down there with a whole lot of
young dudes my own age who were walking around with guns - they just
did it. It blew my mind; I was never the same. Then, when I came back to
the States, I wrote the "Betancourt" poem. It was written to a woman
whom I'd met down there who was a Mexican Communist. She had berated
me constantly about being a petit bourgeois poet. When I came back, all
the arguments about national oppression that I had felt before became
intensified. I wasn't just going on half perception. I had seen people taking
over big aristocrats' houses and turning private beaches into public
beaches, etc. For example, I saw them take over the Hilton Hotel and
change its name from Havana Hilton to Havana Libre. As a matter of fact,
I was trying to call home one time and the American operator said, "Is this
the Havana Hilton?" And the Cuban operator said, "No, this is the Havana
Libre." And so the American woman says, "Havana Libre - what's that?"
And the Cuban woman just said, "You better get used to it. This is the
Havana Libre!" (Laughter) That was really a great thing. I was down there
with Robert Williams, Julian Mayfield, Harold Cruse, Richard Gibson, a lot
of folks, and we actually were right there in the beginning of that. So
when I came back I was turned completely around and began to go on a
really aggressive attack as far as politics was concerned.
Benston: You've spoken of your relation to Creeley, Olson, Ginsberg, and
others who have been termed postmodern. What of your relation to the
early moderns - Eliot, Joyce, Pound, etal.?
Baraka: There was always a dichotomy between my natural feelings and
the ideas I acquired and learned. But the early moderns were definite
influences which I acquired quite consciously. Eliot especially was a heavy
influence in the beginning.
Benston: What about Eliot in particular?
Baraka: Not precisely what he said so much as the tone of it - the
complete cynicism and detachment, and the sophisticated, urbane voice
(particularly in "Prufrock" - more so than even "The Waste Land").
Experience hadn't mashed him, twisted him completely. He had survived
his experience, it seemed to me.
Benston: When you were involved with cultural nationalism you spoke of
the need for a "post-Western" form. Were you, then, consciously desirous
of a post-postmodern as well as a postmodern (Creeley, Olson, Ginsberg, et
al) art?

307

Baraka: I was consciously striving for a post-bourgeois/Western form, even

before the cultural nationalism period. Now, Creeley, Olson, et al. were
themselves post-bourgeois/academic poets, and that was valuable for me.
But they were also, in some ways, an extension of Western art, and so I
tried to get away from them in System. "Modernism" and "postmodernism" are essentially the same thing. The three schools I've
mentioned (Black Mountain, Ginsberg, New York) were opposed to the
existent bourgeois/academic poetry, but their work contained elements
that eventually established yet another bourgeoislacademic school. They
were more modern, to be sure - they led to a crumbling of the old forms.
But to a great extent they perpetuated the same kind of processes - Black
Mountain, for example, can be as obscure as, say, Pound; so can Olson, for
that matter. I learned from these three schools; but, at the same time, I
felt the need to develop from them because their concerns weren't those
of the masses. They weren't asking for revolution.
Benston: How, as a poet, can one link the intimacy of one's own emotion
and experience with the aspirations of a collective consciousness?
Baraka: Basically, your feelings come from your worldview, from your
way of perceiving reality. All people want to be revolutionary; there's
always a need to struggle to try to transform your worldview, to remold
your worldview, so that you actually perceive reality as do the great
masses, the working class. That's basically the problem. There is no actual
dichotomy between your personal feelings, your private, personal understanding of your experience, and the strivings of the collective consciousness if you have succeeded in remolding your worldview so that
you actually perceive the world from the viewpoint of the working class,
the proletariat. The dichotomy arises when you maintain a kind of
isolated, subjective perspective, but still try to reach out toward the
collective will.
Benston: Do you think that maintaining such a subjective worldview is a
surrender to a given form, to a secure confinement within a given idea? I
ask that because one central aspect of your poetry is that no finality is
allowed a concept, a political position, even an image. Is change a result of
reality's constant development?
Baraka: Yes; again, you come back to your worldview. You see, there are
two ways of perceiving the world. The bourgeois worldview - which is a
metaphysical and idealistic worldview - perceives things as static,
unchanging, eternal. That always suits the bourgeoisie because these
"eternal verities" always assert, "Things can never change, things have
always

been this way.

. . .

it's human nature to have classes, somebody

must be on top, that's the nature of humanity, etc." It's a metaphysical

308

line that serves exploitative societies because if everything is supposed to

be static they are not threatened. But the other view perceives the world in
a constant state of change - that is the one constant, change. I've
understood this for a long time, perceptually; though I'd come into
contact with German philosophy (especially Hegel and Wittgenstein) in
college and, later, at the New School, I didn't know I was grappling with
dialectics or anything like that. As a matter of fact, for a while I thought it
had something to do with metaphysics, that "the only constant is change"
was a metaphysical principle. But I definitely have had perceptual
knowledge for a long time that "the only constant is change," that the
change is progressive, and that you have to understand the nature of it to
advance your own perception. Now, as I came more and more in contact
with dialectical materialism and Marxism, I began to understand very
clearly that change is constant and also that reality moves from a lower to
a higher level - that ultimately the motion of society and humanity is
always onward and upward, from ignorance to knowledge, from the
superficial to the in-depth and the detailed. Once you understand clearly
that this is the nature of reality you will see that your own development
has to be in that direction.
Benston: When you determine to write from a current point of view, are
the forms you use dictated by the changing reality you perceive?
Baraka: I think the forms themselves are dictated by the time, place, and
condition, like anything else. Always: time, place, and condition -that's
the matrix for form. The content is always trying to talk about reality,
about its change, and about the necessity for change. But the form
depends on time, place, and condition. I just read an interesting book
about Lu Hsun, the Chinese writer. Lu Hsun wrote in many forms. When
he was a revolutionary democrat he used the short story - and the stories
are great; read them sometime. But later on, as his own kind of
understanding intensified, he changed his form, and the form that he used
most was what he called the "short essay form," in which he combined
poetry and revolutionary observation. I see now that that is a very
comfortable form - short, two or three pages. He used it, as he says, like a
"daggar and a javelin" - you know, to draw blood quickly and demolish.
Benston: Would you say that Hard Facts, and other of your works in the
last few years, searches for that kind of form?
Baraka: Yes, right, I think so. I think my own feeling now is closer to the
short essay form, and reading about Lu Hsun made me realize why I felt
more comfortable using it. For instance, I have a weekly radio program in
Newark, and I can sit down and write a four-page essay each week for that
radio program on anything, and write it in the space of under an hour. The
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short essay form is really suited for the kind of daily struggle I'm engaged
in - it's a kind of struggle form; you can do a lot of things in it.
Benston: Is this because that form has more room, more flexibility than
you're accustomed to when writing poetry?
Baraka: Possibly. Let's say it has more ability to expand - it's wider than
a poem, as far as I'm concerned. Because in poetry you usually have a
rhythmic dynamic that you either try to force, if you don't have it with
you, or, if you have it with you, it flows and has a life of its own. But in
the short essay form the rhythm follows from what you want to say, and
you can sustain that or you can change it - you can simply do anything
you want to.
Benston: Is the form of the musician's craft similar to this kind of
expansion, or is the poetic form, in its confinement, more like music?
Baraka: I always thought of poetry as the form that most corresponds to
music, consciously so, instinctively so. I always thought this because of the
high concentration on rhythm in verse - at least as far as my own
understanding of poetry is concerned. I'm very conscious of rhythm in
poetry - there has to be a rhythmic kind of focus, a build-up - and I
think the essay form could correspond to music in places, at a given
moment. But I think it's less interested in the overall sound of words and
more interested in what it's saying.
Benston: Some people have discussed your poetry in terms of specific jazz
movements and musicians, speaking of Parkeresque and Coltranesque
poems and phases. Is music still a major influence on your poetry?
Baraka: You mean trying to infuse my poetry with some particular
sound? Well, at this particular time, I'm not focused on that as much. In
the last few years, I've listened certainly to more rhythm and blues, more
rock music, than anything else - and certainly what I try to do in poetry
is linked more to that than ten years ago when I was listening to
avant-garde jazz primarily.
Benston: Is this, aside from changing taste, because of the music's lyrics,
the content that you seem to be emphasizing?
Baraka: As a matter of fact, I'm writing a book on this very topic. I've
been writing it for a while, a book on John Coltrane. For the last ten years
rhythm and blues has been much stronger than jazz. The whole jazz thing
went off into a metaphysical, petit bourgeois dimension. Of course, a lot
of rhythm and blues goes off into that - like Alice Cooper, the
311

Funkadelics, or other kinds of nuts. But there's a big difference between,

say, the Coltrane of "Giant Steps" and the post-"Love Supreme" Coltrane,
when he starts going off into Eastern cosmology and other esoteric ideas,
and actually loses a lot of the tough street sound - you know, the fast
rhythm - and goes into a kind of contemplative, quietist form which loses
the fire of actuality. And that time, that era, is when the rhythm and blues
thing comes on so hard.
Benston: Do you think there's a historical relationship between what
happened to jazz in the mid-Sixties and what you're saying has happened
to rhythm and blues; that, as you described the history of Afro-American
music in Blues People, there is a logical movement at work: as one form
becomes hardened and deadened, there remains an energy that simply
becomes displaced into another form?
Baraka: It passes on, exactly. That's what's happening - and it'll do it
again. (Jazz is again making a move now.) I was thinking recently about
the way music is played compared to the words that are sung - how
they're alike, both being indicative of your worldview. If you listen to
somebody who's in the jazz thing, say, Lonnie Liston Smith - listen to
him sing songs. One of his very popular songs is called "Give Peace a
Chance"; all he keeps saying is "Give peace a chance," a very quietist,
pacifistic line. On the other hand, you've got people in rhythm and blues
like the Isley Brothers talking about "The Powers that Be," or the O.J.'s
talking about "Sixteen Families" and "The Rich Get Richer," or Hal
Melvin and the Blue Notes talking about "Wake Up Everybody." Now,
you can also perceive those concerns in what they are actually playing; for
them to actually sing it will let you in on it, but that's what they are
playing anyway.
Benston: So the collective orientation isn't necessarily a function of
whether expression is linguistic or musical?
Baraka: Yes. You see, what I am saying is that a lot of these jazz people
are holding to some kind of solipsistic, petit bourgeois, metaphysical
position.
Benston: When you listen to the music, how do you tell that?
Baraka: Its preoccupation is not immediacy, or not, say, rhythmic
immediacy. It often actually wants to sound very dreamy and evanescent,
and in the rock thing they might go off sounding just plain crazy, like
they're doped up. Now, if you put words to it, it simply brings it out
clearly; but you certainly know what's happening from the notes
themselves, from the musical context alone.
312

Benston: Do you think that late Coltrane - "Expression" or the "Live in

Seattle" album, for example - goes off into the kind of craziness that you
say rock music indulges in?
Baraka: What goes on, basically, is bourgeois navel-watching, as if you've
got all the time in the world just to lay and listen to that for hours and
hours and hours. It's a kind of fascination with the form of the art so that
you get the sense that he's sculpting over and over the same material,
contemplating it endlessly. Altogether those things happen because in that
period he was very heavily into the whole theosophical business. It's got to
be reflected in the art - it's just a reflection of what he is thinking.
Benston: Is there a connection between what you're calling the
"bourgeois worldview" and the form of cultural nationalism which you've
disavowed?
Baraka: Bourgeois nationalism is actually bourgeois ideology just turned
inside out - black instead of white. The bourgeois nationalist poet would
react against Greek mythology and praise Yoruba myth, for example, but
if you analyze their economic bases you find they come out of the same
thing: slave society and feudal society. What the bourgeois nationalist
doesn't understand is that African slave society is no better than European
slave society. The masses are slaves in both.
Benston: When you wrote Blues People you acknowledged African slavery
but said that dehumanization never existed in African slavery and, further,
that this constituted a crucial difference between African and American
slavery. Are you now retracting this distinction?
Baraka: Slavery is dehumanizing whether it is slavery practiced by blacks
against blacks, by whites against whites, or whatever. The one added fact
in the United States was racism, which did not exist with black versus
black or white versus white slavery, a fact created by capitalism. The
people who try to make African slavery some kind of paradise are out of
their minds - slavery is slavery.
Benston: Did you feel that when you were writing Blues People?
Baraka: No. My way of stating it was confused, but that ultimately is the
truth of the distinction that I tried to make. I think the error I made is
trying to make African slavery seem more humanistic. Slavery is slavery.
The only further point is that in the United States there was an added
factor, which was racism.
Benston: In Blues People you constructed a paradigm of an African
313

aesthetic as opposed to a Western aesthetic and then employed that

paradigm to chart the evolution of Afro-American music. Do you feel that
model holds up?
Baraka: It would have to be rewritten because I would have to better
understand the class base of the music I was talking about. What I was
trying to lay out first of all is that Afro-American music developed from
African culture. That was in the face of people who diminished and
denigrated the African influence, saying it didn't exist. There were many
musicologists in the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century
who said that there was no African influence, that even blues came from
English folk songs. I was laboring against cultural aggression and based my
own perceptions on a general anti-imperialist attitude; but I lacked an
all-around scientific approach to it. In the book I'm trying to write on
John Coltrane I hope to correct the basic errors that I see in Blues People,
which are errors related specifically to cultural nationalism. You cannot
make a paradise out of African slavery.
Benston: So you think that when you were talking about the nexus of
African ritual and the nexus of African culture you were over-idealizing
Africa and carrying that idealization through the history of Afro-America
and its music?
Baraka: Right. I tried to make African culture an absolute, a static
absolute to which Afro-American culture related at all points in a static
way. In the Coltrane book I'm trying to chart more accurately the path of
art as a whole, Afro-American art specifically, especially in the period of
Trane's life [1920-1967], which is a very profound, very impressive period
in the world. I'm trying to make a theory of art based on that singular
experience.

Benston: While outlining a theory of art, you once said that art was
"impressive." Did you mean that it was powerful and affective as opposed
to soothing and purgative?
Baraka: The whole meaning of "impressive": not only does it make you
check it out but it affects you, it im-presses or stamps its image upon you.
Benston: In your drama - Slave Ship particularly - you concretely
attempt to so impress the audience that they become what they are
looking at, that they in fact complete what they're looking at, so that they
are as "impressive" as the art itself. In your most recent play [The Motion
of History], which reflects your turn to Marxism, are you still involved
with an affective theater?
314

Baraka: At times. But I think that this is much more of 3 theater of ideas,
much more a theater of statement.
Benston: Are you using, then, images and music as support to the
statement?
Baraka: Yes, to expand it, to make it so that people understand it more
clearly.
Benston: What role does the music play in it?
Baraka: I'm trying to put a total theatrical imprint on it, so that a lot of
the speeches have musical backgrounds. I use the music as they do in
movies, as background, to heighten the emotions and the dramatic effect
- which is old, classic theater.
Benston: It sounds as if you might have been influenced by Brecht's ideas.
Baraka: Yes, well I'm very interested in Brecht. I've been reading some of
Brecht's critical works. I saw Brecht's plays years ago and just last year I
saw The Threepenny Opera and a few of his other plays. I think my
present form of theater develops more directly from my own interest in
film. I would like to write films and make films; I've wanted to do that for
the last ten years. I haven't been able to do it for obvious reasons - that
whole industry is controlled by the bourgeoisie in a very tight way. I try to
compensate for not being able to make films by using film to amplify the
stage statements and, in fact, the last couple of plays I've written have
been written as if they were scripts for films. I think one of the problems
that I have is not being able to find a correct stage form for what's
basically a filmic idea. Watching The Motion of History I've been taking
notes and I believe the next time I do a play I'll have a better
understanding of how actually to incorporate those filmic techniques on
the stage.
Benston: What are the crucial aspects of these techniques in your art?
Baraka: It's a matter of fluidity, time, and a simultaneity of images montage and so forth. It's a matter of being able to say a lot of things in a
short space of time. And that's not impossible, but I haven't been able to
do it correctly yet.
Benston: In your drama up to the time of Slave Ship, you seemed to be
searching, because of the cultural nationalist perspective, for a proper
ritual form. Now, with your turn to dialectical materialism, it would seem
that ritual might be a problem, given its essentially conservative nature.
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Baraka: In its origins, of course, ritual is a conservative form; that's its

economic basis. I think it can be used to make statements that have to do
with that same kind of conservatism in this particular era.
Benston: In that case ritual on the stage would be a kind of sub-text
which would be critical, not a culminating image of transcendence.
Baraka: Yes, and that's the way I use it in this play, as a kind of critical
statement on some things.
Benston: Was your former notion
nationalism?

of

ritual tied to your cultural

Baraka: Sure. The static, ahistorical worldview that cultural nationalists

take tends to elevate ritual as a form that defies time, space, economic
condition, etc. I think now to use ritual you would have to use it in a
critical way.
Benston: Are you saying that cultural nationalism tends to be anti- or
ahistorical in its broad outlines?
Baraka: Sure. Specifically, it is ahistorical in that it tries to make African
culture a static, unchanging artifact. It praises African culture in its
feudalistic and slave forms, as if those were the highest pinnacles of black
society. We have not evolved from some static paradise. Life then was like
life today: continual and progressive struggle.
June, 1977.

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