by Maya Angelou
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.”
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
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