by Maya Angelou
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
‘Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men
When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down
The street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.
One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again, And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.
Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, you will simply
Stand and watch.
Maybe.
Refusal
Beloved,
In what other lives or lands
Have I known your lips
Your hands
Your laughter brave
Irreverent.
Those sweet excesses that
I do adore.
What surety is there
That we will meet again,
On other worlds some
Future time undated.
I defy my body's haste.
Without the Promise
Of one more sweet encounter
I will not deign to die.
Just for a Time
Oh how you used to walk
With that insouciant smile
I liked to hear you talk
And your style
Pleased me for a while.
You were my early love
New as a day breaking in Spring
You were the image of
Everything
That caused me to sing.
I don't like reminiscing
Nostalgia is not my forte
I don't spill tears
On yesterday's years
But honesty makes me say,
You were a precious pearl
How I loved to see you shine,
You were the perfect girl.
And you were mine.
For a time.
For a time.
Just for a time.
Junkie Monkey Reel
Shoulders sag,
The pull of weighted needling.
Arms drag, smacking wet in soft bone
Sockets.
Knees thaw,
Their familiar magic lost. Old bend and
Lock and bend forgot.
Teeth rock in fetid gums.
Eyes dart, die, then float in
Simian juice.
Brains reel,
Master charts of old ideas erased. The
Routes are gone beneath the tracks
Of desert caravans, pre-slavery
Years ago.
Dreams fail,
Unguarded fears on homeward streets
Embrace. Throttling in a dark revenge
Murder is its sweet romance.
How long will
This monkey dance?
The Lesson
I keep on dying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,
Rotting flesh and worms do
Not convince me against
The challenge. The years
And cold defeat live deep in
Lines along my face.
They dull my eyes, yet
I keep on dying,
Because I love to live.
California Prodigal
FOR DAVID P-B
The eye follows, the land
Slips upward, creases down, forms
The gentle buttocks of a young
Giant. In the nestle,
Old adobe bricks, washed of
Whiteness, paled to umber,
Await another century.
Star Jasmine and old vines
Lay claim upon the ghosted land,
Then quiet pools whisper
Private childhood secrets.
Flush on inner cottage walls
Antiquitous faces,
Used to the gelid breath
Of old manors, glare disdainfully
Over breached time.
Around and through these
Cold phantasmatalities,
He walks, insisting
To the languid air,
Activity, music,
A generosity of graces.
His lupin fields spurn old
Deceit and agile poppies dance
In golden riot. Each day is Fulminant, exploding brightly
Under the gaze of his exquisite
Sires, frozen in the famed paint
Of dead masters. Audacious
Sunlight casts defiance
At their feet.
My Arkansas
There is a deep brooding
in Arkansas.
Old crimes like moss pend
from poplar trees.
The sullen ear
th
is much too
red for comfort.
Sunrise seems to hesitate
and in that second
lose its
incandescent aim, and
dusk no more shadows
than the noon.
The past is brighter yet.
Old hates and
ante-bellum lace are rent
but not discarded.
Today is yet to come
in Arkansas.
It writhes. It writhes in awful
waves of brooding.
Through the Inner City to the Suburbs
Secured by sooted windows
And amazement, it is
Delicious. Frosting filched
From a company cake.
People. Black and fast. Scattered
Watermelon seeds on
A summer street. Grinning in
Ritual, sassy in pomp.
From a slow-moving train
They are precious. Stolen gems
Unsaleable and dear. Those
Dusky undulations sweat of forest
Nights, damp dancing, the juicy
Secrets of black thighs.
Images framed picture perfect
Do not move beyond the window
Siding.
Strong delectation:
Dirty stories in changing rooms
Accompany the slap of wet towels and
Toilet seats.
Poli-talk of politician
Parents: “They need shoes and
Cooze and a private Warm latrine. I had a colored Mammy …”
The train, bound for green lawns
Double garages and sullen women
In dreaded homes, settles down
On its habit track.
Leaving
The dark figures dancing
And grinning. Still
Grinning.
Lady Luncheon Club
Her counsel was accepted: the times are grave.
A man was needed who would make them think,
And pay him from the petty cash account.
Our woman checked her golden watch,
The speaker has a plane to catch.
Dessert is served (and just in time).
The lecturer leans, thrusts forth his head
And neck and chest, arms akimbo
On the lectern top. He summons up
Sincerity as one might call a favored
Pet.
He understands the female rage,
Why Eve was lustful and
Delilah's
Grim deceit.
Our woman thinks:
(This cake is much too sweet).
He sighs for youthful death
And rape at ten, and murder of
The soul stretched over long.
Our woman notes:
(This coffee's much too strong). The jobless streets of
Wine and wandering when
Mornings promise no bright relief.
She claps her hands and writes
Upon her pad: (Next time the
Speaker must be brief).
Momma Welfare Roll
Her arms semaphore fat triangles,
Pudgy hands bunched on layered hips
Where bones idle under years of fatback
And lima beans.
Her jowls shiver in accusation
Of crimes clichéd by
Repetition. Her children, strangers
To childhood's toys, play
Best the games of darkened doorways,
Rooftop tag, and know the slick feel of
Other people's property.
Too fat to whore,
Too mad to work,
Searches her dreams for the
Lucky sign and walks bare-handed
Into a den of bureaucrats for
Her portion.
“They don't give me welfare.
I take it.”
The Singer Will Not Sing
FOR A. L.
A benison given. Unused,
no angels promised,
wings fluttering banal lies
behind their sexlessness. No
trumpets gloried
prophecies of fabled fame.
Yet harmonies waited in
her stiff throat. New notes
lay expectant on her
stilled tongue.
Her lips are ridged and
fleshy. Purpled night birds
snuggled to rest.
The mouth seamed, voiceless.
Sounds do not lift beyond
those reddened walls.
She came too late and lonely
to this place.
Willie
Willie was a man without fame,
Hardly anybody knew his name.
Crippled and limping, always walking lame,
He said, “I keep on movin’
Movin’ just the same.”
Solitude was the climate in his head,
Emptiness was the partner in his bed,
Pain echoed in the steps of his tread,
He said, “I keep on followin’
Where the leaders led.
“I may cry and I will die,
But my spirit is the soul of every spring,
Watch for me and you will see
That I'm present in the songs that children sing.”
People called him “Uncle,” “Boy” and “Hey,”
Said, “You can't live through this another day.”
Then, they waited to hear what he would say.
He said, “I'm living
In the games that children play.
“You may enter my sleep, people my dreams,
Threaten my early morning's ease,
But I keep comin’ followin’ laughin’ cryin',
Sure as a summer breeze.
“Wait for me, watch for me.
My spirit is the surge of open seas.
Look for me, ask for me,
I'm the rustle in the autumn leaves.
“When the sun rises
I am the time.
When the children sing
I am the Rhyme.”
To Beat the Child Was Bad Enough
A young body, light
As winter sunshine, a new
Seed's bursting promise,
Hung from a string of silence
Above its future.
(The chance of choice was never known.)
Hunger, new hands, strange voices,
Its cry came natural, tearing.
Water boiled in innocence, gaily
In a cheap pot.
The child exchanged its
Curiosity for terror. The skin
Withdrew, the flesh submitted.
Now, cries make shards
Of broken air, beyond an unremembered
Hunger and the peace of strange hands.
A young body floats.
Silently.
Woman Work
I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I've got the shirts to press
The tots to dress
The cane to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.
Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.
Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
Till I can rest again.
Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight. Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and
stone
Star shine, moon glow
You're all that I can call my own.
One More Round
There ain't no pay beneath the sun
As sweet as rest when a job's well done.
I was born to work up to my grave
But I was not born
To be a slave.
One more round
And let's heave it down,
One more round
And let's heave it down.
Papa drove steel and Momma stood guard,
I never heard them holler ‘cause the work was hard.
They were born to work up to their graves
But they were not born
To be worked-out slaves.
One more round
And let's heave it down,
One more round
And let's heave it down.
Brothers and sisters know the daily grind,
It was not labor made them lose their minds.
They were born to work up to their graves
But they were not born
To be worked-out slaves.
One more round
And let's heave it down,
One more round
And let's heave it down.
And now I'll tell you my Golden Rule,
I was born to work but I ain't no mule.
I was born to work up to my grave
But I was not born
To be a slave.
One more round
And let's heave it down,
One more round
And let's heave it down.
The Traveler
Byways and bygone
And lone nights long
Sun rays and sea waves
And star and stone
Manless and friendless
No cave my home