NEW POEM: Richard Pryor

As you may have noticed, I have started a new project this year that looks at people I admire from many fields. This has taken a bit of a scatter-gun approach thus far, and I think it may continue that way, as it feels unsettling to choose a 'who's better' ordering or to form a hierarchical list. I am writing them as I go, and letting you see them in the same order. I've looked at William Thornton, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Bertha Von Suttner and Wilhelm Röntgen thus far. Now it is the turn of a man I hold in high esteem, Richard Pryor.

The extraordinary life of Richard Pryor, both public and private, cannot help but intrigue, move and become relatable. His hard graft, dedication and ambition saw him rise higher than even he thought possible. From an upbringing in his Grandmother's brothel (where his mother was a prostitute), seeing knife fights and beatings in the brothel bar (The Famous Door), having been sexually abused at the age of 7, incarceration in a military prison and battling with depression, anxiety and drug addiction to possibly the finest comedian of his generation (of all time in the eyes of many), a Hollywood actor, a powerful voice for racial equality, and a much praised, though troubled, figure.

"Pryor: In Pieces" is set in three 17-line stanzas (each comprised of 4 couplets and 3 tercets) which open and close with direct quotations from the subject himself, and one single line closer. Whilst the quotations aren't always used in their original context, they do serve to enhance the poem by giving it some grounding in Pryor's own views. The final line is a combination of Pryor's favourite word and his Grandmother's final words to him before her death. The structure allowed me to examine many aspects, or pieces, of is life: sexuality, sex, drug abuse, violence, comic prowess and the racial divisions of the time (many of which still hold). Here is what I hope to be an honest depiction of an idol, an icon...and let's hope not too fawning

Pryor: In Pieces

A Poem By Simon Clark

“All humour is rooted in pain”,

The little boy with an attitude wakes in the brothel again,

Sex was just a normal part of life,

Molested and beaten; embedded in strife,

His mother was selling, his grandmother running,

Peeking through keyholes, saw them going and coming,

So when he grew up, became a man,

No shock how it turned out, look how it began,

Sexual violence and love walked hand in hand,

Racial inequality all over the land,

Drove him to speak, to taking a stand,

No King and no X but within the same cage,

Excavating the soul, laying it bare on stage,

Always giving then takes with each turn of the page,

So don’t condescend and look askance,

Remarkable for a man, who locked inside prison, took his chance,

“Violence is like voodoo. Locked in a diabolical dance”.

“Everyone carries around his own monsters”,

Demons that set up camp in his brain, on his shoulder; imposters,

Watched it happen at The Famous Door,

Seeing men beaten; broken, begging for more,

Going stir crazy; aching for another fix,

Billie’s strangest of fruit hooked on dangerous kicks,

So many lines that aren’t in the script,

Far out of his mind, terrifyingly gripped,

The picture of Charlie Parker shot in the heart,

Freebasing cocaine hoping the nightmare can’t start,

Whelmed in flames, that’s the state of the art,

Drugs and conceit controlling what transpires,

Smothered in rum, ignite, his body on fire,

Destroying a talent one can only admire,

While his star shone, his dignity fell,

The shadows and darkness consumed him in prison; a holding cell,

“I’m not addicted to cocaine. I just like the way it smells”.

“My job, as I saw it, was to throw light where there had only been darkness”,

Bringing fulfilment to places where there had only been starkness,

Which way is up? He managed to see,

Weaving his powerful words of filigree,

Riveting the crowd live on a Saturday night,

Catcalled for the truth in the Hollywood Bowl light,

Used humour to lessen the hatred,

Left the listener astounded, elated,

He inculcated the spirit of the movement,

Dispersed the message with persuasive amusement,

Urged us all to heal with improvement,

Risen from walking along a lost highway,

Fucking the men, the women; enjoying his play,

Used the words nobody encouraged him to say,

Had it hard, played hard, laughter abounds,

Richard’s talent and legacy is destined always to astound,

“What I’m saying might be profane. But it’s also profound”.

Motherfucker, is it warm enough?

© Simon Clark