Robin Coste Lewis - a triptych that begins and ends with lyric poems meditating on the roles desire and race play in the construction of the self. In the center of the collection is the title poem, "Voyage of the Sable Venus," an amazing narrative made up entirely of titles of artworks from ancient times to the present

Robin Coste Lewis, Voyage of the Sable Venus: and Other Poems Knopf, 2015.

A stunning poetry debut: this meditation on the black female figure throughout time introduces us to a brave and penetrating new voice. 
Robin Coste Lewis’s electrifying collection is a triptych that begins and ends with lyric poems considering the roles desire and race play in the construction of the self. The central panel is the title poem, “Voyage of the Sable Venus,” a riveting narrative made up entirely of titles of artworks from ancient times to the present—titles that feature or in some way comment on the black female figure in Western art. Bracketed by Lewis’s autobiographical poems, “Voyage” is a tender and shocking study of the fragmentary mysteries of stereotype, as it juxtaposes our names for things with what we actually see and know. Offering a new understanding of biography and the self, this collection questions just where, historically, do ideas about the black female figure truly begin—five hundred years ago, five thousand, or even longer? And what role has art played in this ancient, often heinous story? From the “Young Black Female Carrying / a Perfume Vase” to a “Little Brown Girl / Girl Standing in a Tree / First Day of Voluntary / School Integration,” this poet adores her culture and the beauty to be found within it. Yet she is also a cultural critic alert to the nuances of race and desire and how they define us all, including herself, as she explores her own sometimes painful history. Lewis’s book is a thrilling aesthetic anthem to the complexity of race—a full embrace of its pleasure and horror, in equal parts.

“Robin Coste Lewis’s Voyage of the Sable Venus is an experimental tribute to a human history that embraces truth and adventure. She shows how cultures traverse terrains and comingle. These poignant poems, through a poetic excavation, unearth figures that make us question racial constructs. The body is at the center of this imagistic inquiry, and each line is a blind stitch in the psychological metrics of the whole. Lewis’s first collection, a detailed tapestry of ancient and modern behavior—names, dates, and emotional marginalia—is one of a kind.”––Yusef Komunyakaa

"Voyage of the Sable Venus and Other Poems reframes the black figure, most specifically the black female, by pointing out the borders of black beauty, black happiness, and black resilience in our canonical visual culture. Tender and masterful opening and closing poems bookend the archival, lyric masterwork, "Voyage of the Sable Venus," at the center of the collection. This title poem upends the language of representation, collected from the cataloging of the black body in Western art. Robin Coste Lewis takes back depictions of the black feminine and refuses to land or hold down that which has always been alive and loving and lovely. Altogether new, open, experimental and ground-breaking, Lewis privileges real life in all its complications, surprises and triumphs over the frames that have locked down the scale of black womanhood.”––Claudia Rankine

When Robin Coste Lewis was writing “Voyage of the Sable Venus”—the core, the poem at the heart of her book Voyage of the Sable Venus and Other Poems—on Wednesday nights she would bring a new section to the table on West Tenth Street, at NYU’s Graduate Program in Creative Writing, and, when it was her turn among the twelve poets in the workshop, she would hold the pile of copies of the draft and first read it to us, then pass it to the poet next to her, who would read it to us and to Robin, then the copies would come around the table and we would see it. It was a new sun, rising—and facing, across the sky, a new full moon, a mirror. In these brilliant, terrifying, gorgeous, essential poems, our species is seeing itself as if for the first time—for one of the first times which art, over the years, gives us, the times which make up the story of human seeing, knowing, and slowly transforming. Then we would speak, greet the new being—and then in turn Robin would hear, and respond to, in her generous, smart, deep, warm way, her poem’s fellow and fellow poems brought to the table that day. —Sharon Olds

Robin Coste Lewis’s début poetry collection, “Voyage of the Sable Venus and Other Poems” (Knopf), derives its title from a notorious eighteenth-century engraving by Thomas Stothard, “The Voyage of the Sable Venus from Angola to the West Indies.” The image was slave-trade propaganda: it shows an African woman posed like Botticelli’s Venus on a weirdly upholstered half shell. She glides serenely across the Middle Passage, attended by an entourage of cherubs and dolphins and escorted by a predatory Triton, who looks as though he’d read the poem on which the engraving is based: Isaac Teale’s “The Sable Venus, An Ode,” which celebrates the pleasures of raping slave women, since black and white—Sable Venus and Botticelli’s Venus—are, after all, the same “at night.”
“The Voyage of the Sable Venus” has made its own voyage—that word’s bitter irony, lost on its original audience, is now its meaning—and ended up in this arresting book, whose title subtly transforms it. Titles establish property; change the title, and you’ve wrested from the history of racism a powerful symbol for the emergence of black women as the depictors of their own lives. But a voyage requires both an origin and a destination, and so the eighteenth-century engraving and the twenty-first-century book operate as two shores in a trip from the lurid past, in which African women were transported to be sold into slavery as property, to the current day, when an African-American woman like Lewis can recast history in her own brilliant, troubling terms. Google the phrase “voyage of the sable venus,” and you will see how these two works are now linked, in both the old and the new senses of that word.
To keep you happy, I decorated the bars.
Because you had never been hungry, I knew
I could tell you the black side
of my family owned slaves.
I realize this is perhaps
the one reason why I love you,
because I told you this
and you—still—wanted to kiss
me. We laughed when I said plantation,
fell into our chairs when I said cane.
Those “bars,” reflected in the couplets on the page, stand for the innate possessiveness of our gaze; the “you” whose happiness depends on the cage being made pretty is, partly, the reader, who is lured by beauty to the site of pain, and whose scrutinizing presence there turns a bedroom into a prison, or perhaps a zoo. Sex, far from being a reprieve from the humiliations of the past, expresses them; it promises to soar above social and historical identity, but it’s more like an early Wright brothers plane, skipping and wobbling from one degradation to the next: the lover who laughs one minute, changes “every now and then” from “a prancing black buck”—the white stereotype for black male sexual threat—to a “small high yellow girl: pigtailed, / patent leather, eyes spinning gossamer, begging / for egg salad and banana pudding.” Experience and innocence, the “black buck” and the light-skinned girl, are elements of a single racist trope, whose tensions well up in every act of tenderness:
And then you were fourteen, and you had grown
a glorious steel cock under your skirt. To brag
you rubbed yourself against me. Then your tongue
was inside my mouth, and I wanted to say
Please ask me first, but it was your
tongue, so who cared suddenly
about your poor manners?
The poem gets progressively more nightmarish: the “tongue . . . inside my mouth” is an image for speech and for its effacement under circumstances that here seem ecstatic, there violent. Are these lovers, or successive versions of a single person, her sexuality tainted by history? By the end of the poem, both parties have suffered a grotesque, Ovidian transformation: “You said, The bars look pretty, Baby, / then rubbed your hind legs up against mine.”
Lewis is a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Southern California with a fellowship in Poetry and Visual Studies, and those disciplines join together in her book’s title poem—seventy-nine pages long, including notes and appendices—which is itself made up entirely of the “titles, catalog entries, or exhibit descriptions” of objects in Western art that depict the black female form, going back to 38,000 B.C. The sheer bulk of material that Lewis turned up in her research, and the relentlessness of the descriptions, suggests that the history of the black female body is inextricable from the institutions that claim ownership of its depictions; the subjugation is translated into symbolic terms but never undone. Two haunting epigraphs hang over the poem: an announcement, from 1939, for the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s “Employees’ Association Minstrel Show and Dance,” and an inquiry by one “Mrs. B. L. Blankenship,” who writes that she is “anxious to buy a small healthy negro girl—ten or twelve years old.” The latter confronts us with the outright barbarism of slavery and its attendant transactions, while the former suggests how thin a disguise racism must wear at any given moment, in any given cultural institution, to pass for what we optimistically call “culture.”
Poems describing works of art are nearly as old as poems and works of art. The name for this hoary genre is ekphrasis, though in Lewis’s hands its conventions are scrambled. The problem isn’t that the works of art are silent and need a voice; it’s that we encounter them inside institutions that title and describe them for us, pre-assigning them meaning. Poetry can’t imagine these artifacts from scratch, since their labels adhere so tenaciously to them. And so Lewis followed some stringent, self-imposed rules in composing this long poem, altering nothing about her source language except its punctuation. This puts extraordinary pressure on the fundamentals of prosody. Line breaks, stanza shapes, the management and distribution of words and silence—this small repertoire of formal options is here weaponized for maximum impact. The poem moves chronologically; this is a passage from one of its early sections, “Catalog I: Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome”:
Statuette of a Woman Reduced
to the Shape of a Flat Paddle
Statuette of a Black Slave Girl
Right Half of Body and Head Missing
Head of a Young Black Woman Fragment
from a Statuette of a Black Dancing Girl
Lewis’s technique returns the humanity to these anonymous women, which, in turn, makes the objects depicting them feel like examples of, and even instruments of, real historical violence. In a gallery, it seems perfectly natural to see a woman missing her head and half of her body. Here, in a list that feels like a catalogue of atrocities, it’s nearly unbearable.
A later, formally inventive section divides women from the objects that embody them by a method of formal panning, where the residue of personhood is extracted and isolated on the page:
water jar
ointment spoon
in the form of swimming
black girl
with handle
in the form of a carved standing
black girl
Since form is essentially neutral, its effects are wildly variable; in some instances, the technique redeems the women, who were literally objectified, but only, after all, by objectifying them in a different form. Separated from their subjects, these objects that have taken the shape of black women become formless: the poem’s own form corrects the problem by building a sombre temporal interval between object and person, as our eyes make their own voyage from the left to the right margin.


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