By Jon Sands
Write Bloody Publishing  (2011) www.writebloody.com
$15.00; 120 pp; ISBN: 978-1935904267
(Reviewed by G. David, phati’tude Literary Magazine, Vol. 3, No. 1)

JON SANDS’ RISE IN THE POETRY COMMUNITY in New York and beyond these past few years has been meteoric. Known primarily as a spoken word artist, he is also a poet, writer, educator, youth worker, thinker and activist. Sands pours all of these assets into his debut poetry collection, The New Clean.

The title of this slim volume, The New Clean, asks the question: Is Sands talking about coming clean into a “new clean”? Or is “the new clean” a euphemism, like “dirty is the new clean?” The poems suggest it could go both ways, but in this collection, Sands introduces himself to readers by “coming clean” about who he is, where he came from, how he sees himself and the world around him, and possibly, where he’s going.

Sands’ poetry has a blistering intensity that almost leaves you breathless — never forceful, but always urgent. Frank, honest and moving, his work shines as he puts himself on the line — pouring out a cavalcade of emotions, letting readers know exactly what’s at stake. With a style that moves between spoken word and hip-hop beats, much of Sands work signifies an expanding demarcation of racial and cultural identity.

For those unfamiliar with “spoken word,” think of it as a lyrical short story narrative delivered through verse in about 2-4 minutes that’s loud and fast, with rebellious flair. Sands has built a reputation delivering poetry in a big voice with a hip-hop sensibility. As he navigates through different worlds — white, black, Latino, gay and straight, young and old — he traverses through Harlem and Bed-Stuy, lands somewhere in Queens, returns to Cincinnati and ends up on the West Side, presenting a true reflection of his cultural DNA.

The New Clean is divided into four sections with an asterisk, and begins with brief quotes, either from the author or from others, as varied as Walt Whitman to Nuyorican poet Willie Perdomo, or the character Harper from “Angels in America.” Rather than group the poems by theme or style, Sands elected to group them together largely by the tenor and sound of the poems, which works well in this collection.

Sands opens The New Clean with the repetitive poem, “White Boy,” letting the reader know right off the bat that he “ain’t” no ordinary white boy. “White boy coffee shop Bed-Stuy / White boy vegan. / White boy hot sauce on everything. / White boy black music // White boy black friends . . . .” In a “Waldenesque” way, he uses this playful poem to let readers know that his work is written from an untraditional white perspective. In this day and age, it’s not this perspective that “shocks” readers; rather, the joy Sands exudes in this less-than-joyful time, draws them into his work.

The poems that follow are a mixed bag of villanelles, prose poems, list poems, and free style forms that Sands have made so popular on the stage. For example, I’ve heard him perform “My Friend” about losing his cell phone and the loneliness of not having it; and “What I Know,” a villanelle that uses the word “watch” as a repetitive hook, which translates very nicely onto the page. Collectively, these poems create a narrative about Sands’ life impressions: famous people such as Etta James, Toni Morrison, Michael Cirelli, Nina Simone, Cate Blanchett, and John Murillo get brief mentions alongside friends and family members. The standouts are poems about his grandparents, which are both poignant and inspiring. And then there are a couple of love poems that talk of “me” and “her” and “she” with lines like: “. . . I miss the way your neck / wraps around my face like a cave we are both lost in. . . .” (“A Working List of Things I Will Never Tell You”). How delicious!

Poems like “Am,” “Passover (or Thursday)” and “Not About Me” are manifestos/rants that are pure Jon Sands. In “Am” Sands notes:

“I am my older brother — a sophomore in high
school, seating his
Sibling, whispering, This is what I am and I love
myself. His eyes
When I still used faggot as slang for the last time
in my life. I am old —
Tattered-trenchcoat on a woman wearing her
story on the 6 train.
The dragon, fire-breathing-defiance, Noah turned
away from his
Ark because I don’t take no shit; . . .”

In “Passover (or Thursday),” Sands confesses “. . . I am a Gemini. I am a / Vegetarian. I am a Poet. I am Jewish. . . .” He acknowledges that his family “treat our Jewish like a distant cousin,” yet acknowledges that his Jewishness is an integral part of who he is.
But it is Sands’ elegant “love letters” to his grandmother and grandfather found throughout the collection linking the past with the present, which are absolutely stunning. It’s clear that Sands love for them anchors his very being, which is evident in “Epithalamion: For Mollie and my Brother Jacob,” “Elegy,” “What I Know,” and “Turbulence.” In “Elegy,” Sands says to his grandmother:

“When he falls into the population of those
holding keys
to the big question, years from now, now — where
even
when he’s not thinking, he looks like he’s
thinking. When
he’s not detached, he looks detached. When
he’s not
mourning as life that never quite paid his due
promise.
When he does pass, and I accompany you on a
flight back
to a nursing home in Cincinnati, a city that by
then will
call to me like a slow dying, you’ll say, Its been
seventy years.
I don’t know who I am without Nat.”

What a beaut!

While Sands is a child of hip hop and the spoken word, he is not an urban outlaw, nor did he grow up in the hood. Dig deeper and you’ll find that he graduated from Ohio University, summa cum laude, with a Bachelor of Science in Integrated Social Studies and a Spanish Minor. Obviously very bright, he excels at scratching beyond the surface. Yet Sands makes it clear that he’s not trying to sell that he is “down with folk,” rather, “he is folk.” In the end, Sands succeeds in writing poetry of astute technical variation, dimension, and diversity that readers can easily relate to.

Let’s face it, spoken word artists are a dime a dozen — everyone wants to be a star. But it’s the really good ones that are true poets, able to perform, write good poetry, and everything in between. This explains why spoken word artists like Sherman Alexie, Patricia Smith and Tara Betts have successfully made the transition to the page, where others have failed. In his debut collection, The New Clean, Jon Sands, the little boy with the big voice from Cincinnati, has proven without a doubt that not only does he write to read out loud, but that he also writes to be read.

JON SANDS, an editor of phati’tude Literary Magazine, is Director of Poetry Education Programming at the Positive Health Project (a syringe exchange center located in Midtown Manhattan), a CUNY adjunct lecturer, as well as a Youth Mentor with Urban Word-NYC. His work has appeared in decomP, The Millions, kill author, Suss, The Literary Bohemian, Danse Macabre, and others.

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