loving a great man
later
my life will accuse me
of various treasons
not black enough
too black
eyes closed when they should have been open
eyes open when they should have been closed
will accuse me for unborn babies
and dead trees
later
when i defend again and again
with this love
my life will keep silent
listening to
my body breaking
apology
(to the panthers)
i became a woman
during the old prayers
among the ones who wore
bleaching cream to bed
and all my lessons stayed
i was obedient
but brothers i thank you
for these mannish days
i remember again the wise one
old and telling of suicides
refusing to be slaves
i had forgotten and
brothers i thank you
i praise you
i grieve my whiteful ways
lately
everybody i meet
is a poet.
“Look here”
said the tall delivery man
who is always drunk
“whoever can do better
ought to do it. Me,
I’m 25 years old
and all the white boys
my age
are younger than me.”
so saying
he dropped a six pack
turned into most of my cousins
and left.
the ’70s
will be the days
i go unchildrened
strange women will walk
out my door and in
hiding my daughters
holding my sons
leaving me nursing on my self
again
having lost some
begun much
listen children
keep this in the place
you have for keeping
always
keep it all ways
we have never hated black
listen
we have been ashamed
hopeless tired mad
but always
all ways
we loved us
we have always loved each other
children all ways
pass it on
driving through new england
by broken barns and pastures
i long for the rains of wydah
and the gardens
ripe as history
oranges and citron
limefruit and african apple
not just this springtime and
these wheatfields
white poets call the past.
the news
everything changes the old
songs click like light bulbs
going off the faces
of men dying scar the air
the moon becomes the mountain
who would have thought
who would believe
dead things could stumble back
and kill us
the bodies broken on
the trail of tears
and the bodies melted
in middle passage
are married to rock and
ocean by now
and the mountains crumbling on
white men
the waters pulling white men down
sing for red dust and black clay
good news about the earth
song
sons of slaves and
daughters of masters
all come up from the
ocean together
daughters of slaves and
sons of masters
all ride out on the
empty air
brides and hogs and dogs and babies
close their eyes against the sight
bricks and sticks and diamonds witness
a life of death is the death of life
prayer
lighten up
why is your hand
so heavy
on just poor
me?
answer
this is the stuff
i made the heroes
out of
all the saints
and prophets and things
had to come by
this
heroes
africa
home
oh
home
the soul of your
variety
all of my bones
remember
i am high on the man called crazy
who has turned nigger into prince
and broken his words on every ear.
he is blinded by the truth.
his nose is sharp with courage.
this crazy man has given his own teeth
to eat devils and out of mine
he has bitten sons.
earth
here is where it was dry
when it rained
and also
here
under the same
what was called
tree
it bore varicolored
flowers children bees
all this used to be a
place once all this
was a nice place
once
for the bird who flew against our window one morning and broke his natural neck
my window
is his wall.
in a crash of
birdpride
he breaks the arrogance
of my definitions
and leaves me grounded
in his suicide.
God send easter
and we will lace the
jungle on
and step out
brilliant as birds
against the concrete country
feathers waving as we
dance toward jesus
sun reflecting mango
and apple as we
glory in our skin
so close
they come so close
to being beautiful
if they had hung on
maybe five more years
we would have been together
for these new things
and for them old niggers
to have come so close oh
seem like some black people
missed out even more than
all the time
wise: having the ability to perceive and adopt the best means for accomplishing an end.
all the best minds
come into wisdom early.
nothing anybody can say
is profound as
no money no wine.
all the wise men
on the corner.
malcolm
nobody mentioned war
but doors were closed
black women shaved their heads
black men rustled in the alleys like leaves
prophets were ambushed as they spoke
and from their holes black eagles flew
screaming through the streets
eldridge
the edge
of this
cleaver
this
straight
sharp
single-
handled
man
will not
rust
break, or
be broken
to bobby seale
feel free.
like my daddy
always said
jail wasn’t made
for dogs
was made for
men
for her hiding place
in whiteness
&nb
sp; for angela
straightening her hair
to cloud white eyes
for the yellow skin
of angela
and the scholarships
to hide in
for angela
for angela
if we forget our sister
while they have her
let our hair fall
straight on to our backs
like death
richard penniman
when his mama and daddy died
put on an apron and long pants
and raised up twelve brothers and sisters
when a whitey asked one of his brothers one time
is little richard a man (or what?)
he replied in perfect understanding
you bet your faggot ass
he is
you bet your dying ass.
daddy
12/02–5/69
the days have kept on coming,
daddy or not. the cracks
in the sidewalk turn green
and the Indian women sell pussywillows
on the corner. nothing remembers.
everything remembers.
in the days where daddy was
there is a space.
my daddy died as he lived,
a confident man.
“I’ll go to Heaven,” he said,
“Jesus knows me.”
when his leg died, he cut it off.
“It’s gone,” he said, “it’s gone
but I’m still here.”
what will happen to the days
without you
my baby whispers to me.
the days have kept on coming
and daddy’s gone.
he knew.
he must have known and
i comfort my son with the hope
the life in the confident man.
poem for my sisters
like he always said
the things of daddy
will find him
leg to leg and
lung to lung
and the man who
killed the bear
so we could cross the mountain
will cross it whole
and holy
“all goodby ain’t gone”
the kind of man he is
for fred
the look of him
the beauty of the man
is in his comings and
his goings from
something is black
in all his instances
he fills
his wife with children and
with things she never knew
so that the sound of him
comes out of her in all directions
his place
is never taken
he is a dark
presence with his friends
and with his enemies
always
which is the thing
which is
the kind of man he is
some jesus
adam and eve
the names
of the things
bloom in my mouth
my body opens
into brothers
cain
the land of nod
is a desert
on my head i
plant tears
every morning
my brother
don’t rise up
moses
i walk on bones
snakes twisting
in my hand
locusts breaking my mouth
an old man
leaving slavery
home is burning in me
like a bush
God got his eye on
solomon
i bless the black
skin of the woman
and the black
night turning around her
like a star’s bed
and the black
sound of delilah
across his prayers
for they have made me
wise
job
job easy
is the pride
of God
job hard
the pride
of job
i come to rags
like a good baby
to breakfast
daniel
some few things
like when a man
walk manly
he don’t stumble
even in the lion’s den
jonah
what i remember
is green
in the trees
and the leaves
and the smell of mango
and yams
and if i had a drum
i would send to the brothers
—Be care full of the ocean—
john
somebody coming in blackness
like a star
and the world be a great bush
on his head
and his eyes be fire
in the city
and his mouth be true as time
he be calling the people brother
even in the prison
even in the jail
i’m just only a baptist preacher
somebody bigger than me coming
in blackness like a star
mary
this kiss
as soft as cotton
over my breasts
all shiny bright
something is in this night
oh Lord have mercy on me
i feel a garden
in my mouth
between my legs
i see a tree
joseph
something about this boy
has spelled my tongue
so even when my fingers tremble
on mary
my mouth cries only
Jesus Jesus Jesus
the calling of the disciples
some Jesus
has come on me
i throw down my nets
into water he walks
i loose the fish
he feeds to cities
and everybody calls me
an old name
as i follow out
laughing like God’s fool
behind this Jesus
the raising of lazarus
the dead shall rise again
whoever say
dust must be dust
don’t see the trees
smell rain
remember africa
everything that goes
can come
stand up
even the dead shall rise
palm sunday
so here come i
home again
and the people glad
giving thanks
glorying in the brother
laying turnips
for the mule to walk on
waving beets
and collards in the air
good friday
i rise up above my self
like a fish flying
men will be gods
if they want it
easter sunday
while i was in the middle of the night
I saw red stars and black stars
pushed out of the sky by white ones
and i knew as sure as jungle
is the father of the world
i must slide down like a great dipper of stars
and lift men up
spring song
the green of Jesus
is breaking the ground
and the sweet
smell of delicious Jesus
is opening the house and
the dance of Jesus music
has hold of the air and
the world is turning
in the body of Jesus and
the future is possible
Uncoll
ected Poems
(1973–1974)
Phillis Wheatley Poetry Festival
November 1973
for Margaret Walker Alexander
I
Hey Nikki
wasn’t it good, wasn’t it good June
Carole wasn’t it good, wasn’t it good Alice
Carolyn wasn’t it good, Audre wasn’t it good
wasn’t it good Sonia, sister wasn’t it good?
Wasn’t it good Margaret, wasn’t it good?
Wasn’t it good Linda, Mari wasn’t it good
wasn’t it good Margaret, wasn’t it good Naomi
wasn’t it good Sarah, sister wasn’t it good?