The Book of Judith
This week, our friends at New Village Press released “The Book of Judith: Opening Hearts Through Poetry,” an homage to the life of poet, writer, and teaching artist Judith Tannenbaum and her impact on incarcerated and marginalized students. Our founder Fury Young is one of many contributors to the book, which was co-edited by Spoon Jackson, a longtime DJC affiliate and writer who is serving life without parole in California. Both Spoon and Fury considered Judith a mentor during her lifetime, and for Spoon, she introduced him to a world of poetry when she taught at San Quentin in the 1980s.
In celebration of Judith and the book’s release, we’re sharing Fury’s passage from “The Book of Judith,” which he originally wrote in November 2020, a year after her passing. Its original title was simply “For Judith.”
Imaginary Landscapes
by Fury Young
I was lucky enough to know Judith for the last five years of her life, and during that time, the formative half decade of my mid to late twenties, I came to view her as a mentor and kindred spirit.
As a teacher, Judith possessed consistency, honesty, and humility. When you read her memoir, Disguised As A Poem, which she once told me was her best work, you will find someone who sought hard truths in dark places. From those dark places she made lifelong friends.
When it came to poetry, Judith’s words were the geology of California and far beyond. She read with a steady and soft voice which birds might envy.
As a colleague, Judith was, again, consistent. There wasn’t an email she didn’t reply to or a question she didn’t answer —sometimes in unexpected intricate detail!
Though I only got to meet Judith twice in person, those two visits were special to me, like visiting a spiritual advisor who long travel had brought you to.
“For Judith” by Fury Young (2020).
The old saying “You can’t take it with you” has never made sense to me. Though Judith is no longer here, I’ll take her with me when I’m in a prison, workshopping songs with incarcerated musicians, or when I write a poem that I seek to be open but harsh like she was.
When I left Judith the second and last time I saw her, she was laying down on a rug in her apartment in El Cerrito, head toward the ceiling looking at an imaginary landscape. She’d told me that most of her recent days were spent in this position, with a New Orleans radio station keeping her company as nostalgic soundtrack.
Upon leaving her apartment, I knew I would never see her again. A part of me wanted to give her a big hug or make a heartfelt statement, but the fact that I’d traveled across the country to see her said enough. So, I settled with a no-frills “Have a good rest of your day,” and I opened the door to leave. With a hand circling over her head like a halo, Judith replied, “Thank you so much. It’s all gonna be up here.”
In that moment, Judith gave me another thing to take with me. An eternal sense of wonder which lay right between the ears, which transcended death and soared over canyons. Which perched on redwoods and then kept on soaring, which still lands on my shoulder every once in a poetic while.
Fury and Judith at their last visit; El Cerrito. September 2019.
Their first visit, Greenpoint, Brooklyn; 2016.
