The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou, Page 4

anus tight, when

  my man look in

  the light blue eyes.

  He thinks

  He don't play

  His Afro crown raises

  eyes. Raises eyebrows

  of wonder and dark

  envy when he, combed

  out, hits the street.

  He sleek

  Dashiki

  Wax-printed on his skin

  remembrances of Congo dawns

  laced across his chest.

  Red Blood Red and Black.

  He bought

  O he got

  Malcolm's paper

  back. Checked out the

  photo, caught a few godly lines. Then wondered how

  many wives/daughters of

  Honky (miscalled The Man)

  bird snake

  caught, dug them both.

  (Him, Fro-ed Dashiki-ed

  and the book.)

  He stashed

  He stands stashed

  Near, too near the MLK

  Library. P.S. naught

  naught naught. Breathing

  slaughter on the Malcolm X

  Institute. Whole fist

  balled, fingers pressing

  palm. Shooting up through

  Honky's blue-eyed sky.

  “BLACK IS!”

  “NATION TIME!”

  “TOMORROW'S GLORY HERE TODAY”

  Pry free the hand

  Observe our Black present.

  There lie soft on that

  copper palm, a death of

  coke. A kill of horse

  eternal night's barbiturates.

  One hundred youths

  sped down to

  Speed.

  He right

  O he bad He badder than death

  yet gives no sweet

  release.

  Chicken-Licken

  She was afraid of men,

  sin and the humors

  of the night.

  When she saw a bed

  locks clicked

  in her brain.

  She screwed a frown

  around and plugged

  it in the keyhole.

  Put a chain across

  her door and closed

  her mind.

  Her bones were found

  round thirty years later

  when they razed

  her building to

  put up a parking lot.

  Autopsy read:

  dead of acute peoplelessness.

  I Almost Remember

  I almost remember

  smiling some years past

  even combing the ceiling

  with the teeth of a laugh

  (longer ago than the

  smile).

  Open night news-eyed I watch

  channels of hunger

  written on children's faces

  bursting bellies balloon

  in the air of my day room.

  There was a smile, I recall

  now jelled in

  a never yester glow. Even a laugh

  that tickled the tits of

  heaven

  (older than the smile).

  In graphs, afraid, I see the black

  brown hands and

  white thin yellowed fingers

  Slip slipping from the

  ledge of life. Forgotten by

  all but hatred.

  Ignored

  by all but disdain.

  On late evenings when

  quiet inhabits my garden

  when grass sleeps and

  streets are only paths for silent

  mist

  I seem to remember

  Smiling.

  Prisoner

  Even sunlight dares

  and trembles through

  my bars

  to shimmer

  dances on

  the floor.

  A clang of

  lock and

  keys and heels

  and blood-dried

  guns.

  Even sunshine

  dares.

  It's jail

  and bail

  then rails to run.

  Guard grey men

  serve plates of rattle

  noise and concrete

  death and beans.

  Then pale sun stumbles

  through the poles of

  iron to warm the horror

  of grey guard men.

  It's jail

  and bail

  then rails to run.

  Black night. The me

  myself of me sleeks

  in the folds and history

  of fear. To secret hold

  me deep and close my

  ears of lulls and clangs

  and memory of hate.

  Then night and sleep

  and dreams.

  It's jail

  and bail

  then rails to run.

  Woman Me

  Your smile, delicate

  rumor of peace.

  Deafening revolutions nestle in the

  cleavage of

  your breasts.

  Beggar-Kings and red-ringed Priests

  seek glory at the meeting

  of your thighs.

  A grasp of Lions. A lap of Lambs.

  Your tears, jeweled

  strewn a diadem

  caused Pharaohs to ride

  deep in the bosom of the

  Nile. Southern spas lash fast

  their doors upon the night when

  winds of death blow down your name

  A bride of hurricanes. A swarm of summer wind.

  Your laughter, pealing tall

  above the bells of ruined cathedrals.

  Children reach between your teeth

  for charts to live their lives.

  A stomp of feet. A bevy of swift hands.

  John J

  His soul curdled

  standing milk

  childhood's right gone wrong.

  Plum-blue skin brown dusted

  eyes black shining.

  (His momma didn't want him.)

  The round head slick silk

  Turn-around, fall-down curls.

  Old ladies smelling of flour

  and talcum powder, Cashmere Bouquet, said

  “This child is pretty enough to be a girl.”

  (But his momma didn't want him.)

  John J. grinned a “How can you resist me?”

  and danced to conjure lightning from

  a morning's summer sky.

  Gave the teacher an apple kiss.

  (But his momma didn't want him.)

  His nerves stretched two thousand miles

  found a flinging singing lady,

  breasting a bar

  calling straights on the dice,

  gin over ice,

  and the 30's version of

  everybody in the

  pool.

  (She didn't want him.)

  Southeast Arkanasia

  After Eli Whitney's gin

  brought to generations’ end

  bartered flesh and broken bones

  Did it cleanse you of your sin

  Did you ponder?

  Now, when farmers bury wheat

  and the cow men dump the sweet

  butter down on Davy Jones

  Does it sanctify your street

  Do you wonder?

  Or is guilt your nightly mare

  bucking wake your evenings’ share

  of the stilled repair of groans

  and the absence of despair

  over yonder?

  Song for the Old Ones

  My Fathers sit on benches

  their flesh counts every plank

  the slats leave dents of darkness

  deep in their withered flanks.

  They nod like broken candles

  all waxed and burnt profound

  they say “It's understanding

  that makes the world go round.”r />
  There in those pleated faces

  I see the auction block

  the chains and slavery's coffles

  the whip and lash and stock.

  My Fathers speak in voices

  that shred my fact and sound

  they say “It's our submission

  that makes the world go round.”

  They used the finest cunning

  their naked wits and wiles

  the lowly Uncle Tomming

  and Aunt Jemimas’ smiles.

  They've laughed to shield their crying

  then shuffled through their dreams and

  stepped ‘n’ fetched a country

  to write the blues with screams.

  I understand their meaning

  it could and did derive

  from living on the edge of death

  They kept my race alive.

  Child Dead in Old Seas

  Father,

  I wait for you in oceans

  tides washing pyramids high

  above my head.

  Waves, undulating

  corn rows around my

  black feet.

  The heavens shift and

  stars find holes set

  new in dark infirmity.

  My search goes on.

  Dainty shells on ash-like wrists

  of debutantes remember you.

  Childhood's absence has

  not stilled your

  voice. My ear

  listens. You whisper

  on the watery passage.

  Deep dirges moan

  from the

  belly of the sea

  and your song

  floats to me

  of lost savannahs

  green and

  drums. Of palm trees bending

  woman-like swaying

  grape-blue children laugh on beaches

  of sand as

  white as your bones

  clean

  on the foot of

  long-ago waters.

  Father.

  I wait for you

  wrapped in

  the entrails of

  whales. Your

  blood now

  blues

  spume

  over

  the rippled

  surface of our

  grave.

  Take Time Out

  When you see them

  on a freeway hitching rides

  wearing beads

  with packs by their sides

  you ought to ask

  What's all the

  warring and the jarring

  and the

  killing and

  the thrilling

  all about.

  Take Time Out.

  When you see him

  with a band around his head

  and an army surplus bunk

  that makes his bed

  you'd better ask

  What's all the

  beating and

  the cheating and

  the bleeding and

  the needing

  all about.

  Take Time Out.

  When you see her walking

  barefoot in the rain

  and you know she's tripping

  on a one-way train

  you need to ask

  What's all the

  lying and the

  dying and

  the running and

  the gunning

  all about.

  Take Time Out.

  Use a minute

  feel some sorrow

  for the folks

  who think tomorrow

  is a place that they

  can call up

  on the phone.

  Take a month

  and show some kindness

  for the folks

  who thought that blindness

  was an illness that

  affected eyes alone.

  If you know that youth

  is dying on the run

  and my daughter trades

  dope stories with your son

  we'd better see

  what all our

  fearing and our jeering and our

  crying and

  our lying

  brought about.

  Take Time Out.

  Elegy

  FOR HARRIET TUBMAN & FREDRICK DOUGLASS

  I lie down in my grave

  and watch my children

  grow

  Proud blooms

  above the weeds of death.

  Their petals wave

  and still nobody

  knows the soft black

  dirt that is my winding

  sheet. The worms, my friends,

  yet tunnel holes in

  bones and through those

  apertures I see the rain.

  The sunfelt warmth

  now jabs

  within my space and

  brings me roots of my

  children born.

  Their seeds must fall

  and press beneath

  this earth,

  and find me where

  I wait. My only need to

  fertilize their birth.

  I lie down in my grave

  and watch my children

  grow.

  Reverses

  How often must we

  butt to head

  Mind to ass

  flank to nuts

  cock to elbow

  hip to toe

  soul to shoulder

  confront ourselves

  in our past.

  Little Girl Speakings

  Ain't nobody better'n my Daddy,

  you keep yo’ quauter,

  I ain't yo’ daughter,

  Ain't nobody better'n my Daddy.

  Ain't nothing prettier'n my dollie,

  heard what I said,

  don't pat her head,

  Ain't nothing prettier'n my dollie.

  No lady cookinger than my Mommy,

  smell that pie,

  see I don't lie,

  No lady cookinger than my Mommy.

  This Winter Day

  The kitchen is its readiness

  white green and orange things

  leak their blood selves in the soup.

  Ritual sacrifice that snaps

  an odor at my nose and starts

  my tongue to march

  slipping in the liquid of its drip.

  The day, silver striped

  in rain, is balked against

  my window and the soup.

  This book is dedicated

  to a few

  oj the Good Guys

  You to laugh with

  You to cry to

  I can just about make

  it over

  JESSICA MITFORD

  GERARD W. PURCELL

  JAY ALLEN

  A Kind of Love, Some Say

  Is it true the ribs can tell

  The kick of a beast from a

  Lover's fist? The bruised

  Bones recorded well

  The sudden shock, the

  Hard impact. Then swollen lids,

  Sorry eyes, spoke not

  Of lost romance, but hurt.

  Hate often is confused. Its

  Limits are in zones beyond itself. And

  Sadists will not learn that

  Love, by nature, exacts a pain

  Unequalled on the rack.

  Country Lover

  Funky blues

  Keen toed shoes

  High water pants

  Saddy night dance

  Red soda water

  and anybody's daughter

  Remembrance

  FOR PAUL

  Your hands easy

  weight, teasing the bees

  hived in my hair, your smile at the

  slope of my cheek. On the

  occasion, you press

  above me, glowing, spouting

  readiness, mystery rapes
/>   my reason.

  When you have withdrawn

  your self and the magic, when

  only the smell of your

  love lingers between

  my breasts, then, only

  then, can I greedily consume

  your presence.

  Where We Belong, A Duet

  In every town and village,

  In every city square,

  In crowded places

  I searched the faces

  Hoping to find Someone to care.

  I read mysterious meanings

  In the distant stars,

  Then I went to schoolrooms

  And poolrooms

  And half-lighted cocktail bars.

  Braving dangers,

  Going with strangers,

  I don't even remember their names.

  I was quick and breezy

  And always easy

  Playing romantic games.

  I wined and dined a thousand exotic Joans and Janes

  In dusty dance halls, at debutante balls,

  On lonely country lanes.

  I fell in love forever,

  Twice every year or so.

  I wooed them sweetly, was theirs completely,

  But they always let me go.

  Saying bye now, no need to try now,

  You don't have the proper charms. Too sentimental and much too gentle

  I don't tremble in your arms.

  Then you rose into my life

  Like a promised sunrise.

  Brightening my days with the light in your eyes.

  I've never been so strong,

  Now I'm where I belong.

  Phenomenal Woman

  Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

  I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size