“The brilliant fourth book from Gay . . . continues his now-signature inquiry into feeling. Shaped as a single poem in a long sentence of center-justified couplets, the drama of this unfolding sentence is impeccable, a suspension that mirrors its subject: basketball Hall-of-Famer Julius Erving’s midair ‘baseline scoop’ in the 1980 NBA finals.” —Publishers Weekly starred review
“This book-length poem is a voice’s drive down center court. At once record, collage, group photograph, dance, and archive, Be Holding reveals a multifaceted intimacy and lyricism within the history of a game, tracing how this history is interconnected with the saga of our country. Ross Gay has once again proven himself one of our greatest poets.” —Claudia Rankine
“Nothing happens only when it happens. Right now, we’re all tree-borne watching the Doctor all but not come down, again and again. We feel the weight of our enjoyment, the heavy duress we’re under when it happens, where it happens, where nothing happens only where it happens. Behold! We are held in flight. Is that why Dr. J tried to give the last word on that move, saying it was ‘just another move,’ saying so all but sadly? Well, Be Holding unfolds that word, moves it and releases it, re-releasing that move in carefully watching, again and again, for all that differentiates it from all the descendant moves and for all that entangles it with all the ascendant ones. The flights in fallenness, the grave plays on stillness, the refusals of space and time, the reprovals of being and history, are so serious that it’s as if it were just a game, not a game, not a game, this practice of desperate falling into looking. We play it light, though. There’s no last word on what we hand and hold, or on what we behold, or on our beholding. Again and again, in the beautiful note he holds and hands, that’s what Ross Gay be saying.” —Fred Moten
"There are no idle spectators in this new bougainvillea book-length poem by Ross Gay. Tender, incisive, double-dutching couplets, stretch end to end. We are hula-hooped on and off the court then deposited inside photographs and lush gardens, calipers in hand, ready to measure the honey, the scent, the circumference of our eyes, hearts, hand." —Nikky Finney
“My Lord. The brilliance, formal dexterity, and deep generosity of this book. This book that makes me rethink what poetry can offer, both in a literary and holistic sense. Ross Gay takes one fluid human gesture and through it expands the lungs of personal and communal history so they might hold all joy, terror, and violence of this world. Be Holding is unlike any poetry book written in recent memory. In this terrible era, Ross Gay has written a book that breathes this broken world in and then returns it to us so we might breathe too. And break. And bloom into whatever it is we are on the path to becoming.” —Gabrielle Calvocoressi
“A unique work of form and substance.” —The Millions
“Impossible, unprecedented, right-before-your eyes but defying logic and the laws of nature.” —RHINO
“Ross Gay’s work is not only celebratory. It is also an exegesis on loss, grief, prejudice, shame, and the improbability of grace in our lives—especially in Black lives.” —Boston Review
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Excerpt from Be Holding
and so Doc leapt,
he left his feet,
which means more or less jumping with the ball
with nowhere to go, and which
we’re warned against by coaches
from day one
for the ensuing requisite stupid pass
or more simply though no less stupid
travel, also called walking,
which the leaping often leads to,
keep your feet!
again and again,
which makes the leaping—leaving your feet—
sound sacrificial,
the way in certain places, certain
countries, or countries inside of countries,
you must leave by foot with nowhere to go,
which there is,
and Doc, you should note, after the one dribble
clasps the ball with only his right hand
without once at all in any shape or form
using the left, which, among other things,
friends, differentiates this from all
the descendant moves—
Kevin Durant, Dwayne Wade,
Steph and Giannis and Harden and Kawhi,
yes, Bron Bron too,
I shall not be moved—
and using only one hand,
which is amazing but not yet miraculous,
more a physical and therefore genetic fact
(thanks Ma & Pa Erving),
Doc’s hand becomes an octopus
gripping the ball nothing like prey,
and with that ball snugged in his mitt
Doc maybe kinda sorta thought something like
I am going to put this schmuck
(the schmuck in this case being Landsberger,
though do not, please, revert to a simplistic
allegorization of the journeyman,
which word I repeat advisedly)
on a poster,
though schmuck is a word I’d be
surprised to hear Doc say,
and the word posterize,
(common usage: posterize his ass)
you might be thinking,
is a bit of an anachronism in this poem,
in this move, which ostensibly occurred
in the 1980 NBA Finals,
though we all know that nothing happens
only when it happens
