by Maya Angelou
My story ain't news and it ain't all sad.
There's plenty worse off than me.
Yet the only thing I really don't need
is strangers’ sympathy.
That's someone else's word for
caring.
Changing
It occurs to me now,
I never see you smiling
anymore. Friends
praise your
humor rich, your phrases
turning on a thin
dime. For me your wit is honed
to killing sharpness.
But I never catch
you simply smiling, anymore.
Born That Way
As far as possible, she strove
for them all. Arching her small
frame and grunting
prettily, her
fingers counting the roses
in the wallpaper.
Childhood whoring fitted her
for deceit. Daddy had been a
fondler. Soft lipped mouthings,
soft lapped rubbings.
A smile for pretty shoes,
a kiss could earn a dress.
And a private telephone
was worth the biggest old caress.
The neighbors and family friends
whispered she was seen
walking up and down the streets
when she was seventeen.
No one asked her reasons.
She couldn't even say.
She just took for granted
she was born that way.
As far as possible, she strove
for them all. Arching her small
frame and grunting prettily, her
fingers counting the roses
in the wallpaper.
Televised
Televised news turns
a half-used day into
a waste of desolation.
If nothing wondrous preceded
the catastrophic announcements,
certainly nothing will follow, save
the sad-eyed faces of
bony children,
distended bellies making
mock at their starvation.
Why are they always
Black?
Whom do they await?
The lamb-chop flesh
reeks and cannot be
eaten. Even the
green peas roll on my plate
unmolested. Their innocence
matched by the helpless
hope in the children's faces.
Why do Black children
hope? Who will bring
them peas and lamb chops
and one more morning?
Nothing Much
But of course you were
always nothing. No thing.
A red-hot rocket, patriotically
bursting in my
veins. Showers of stars—cascading stars
behind closed eyelids. A
searing brand across my
forehead. Nothing of importance.
A four-letter word stenciled
on the flesh of my inner
thigh.
Stomping through my brain's
mush valleys. Strewing a
halt of new loyalties.
My life, so I say
nothing much.
Glory Falls
Glory falls around us
as we sob
a dirge of
desolation on the Cross
and hatred is the ballast of
the rock
which lies upon our necks
and underfoot.
We have woven
robes of silk
and clothed our nakedness
with tapestry.
From crawling on this
murky planet's floor
we soar beyond the
birds and
through the clouds
and edge our way from hate
and blind despair and
bring honor
to our brothers, and to our sisters cheer.
We grow despite the
horror that we feed
upon our own
tomorrow.
We grow.
London
If I remember correctly,
London is a very queer place.
Mighty queer.
A million miles from
jungle, and the British
lion roars in the stone of
Trafalgar Square.
Mighty queer.
At least a condition
removed from Calcutta,
but old men in Islington and in
too-large sweaters dream
of the sunrise days
of the British Raj.
Awfully queer.
Centuries of hate divide St. George's
channel and the Gaels,
but plum-cheeked English boys drink
sweet tea and grow to fight
for their Queen.
Mighty queer.
Savior
Petulant priests, greedy
centurions, and one million
incensed gestures stand
between your love and me.
Your agape sacrifice
is reduced to colored glass,
vapid penance, and the
tedium of ritual.
Your footprints yet
mark the crest of
billowing seas but
your joy
fades upon the tablets
of ordained prophets.
Visit us again, Savior.
Your children, burdened with
disbelief, blinded by a patina
of wisdom,
carom down this vale of
fear. We cry for you
although we have lost
your name.
Many and More
There are many and more
who would kiss my hand,
taste my lips,
to my loneliness lend
their bodies’ warmth.
I have want of a friend.
There are few, some few,
who would give their names
and fortunes rich
or send first sons
to my ailing bed.
I have need of a friend.
There is one and only one
who will give the air
from his failing lungs
for my body's mend.
And that one is my love.
The New House
What words
have smashed against
these walls,
crashed up and down these
halls,
lain mute and then drained
their meanings out and into
these floors?
What feelings, long since
dead,
streamed vague yearnings
below this ceiling
light?
In some dimension,
which I cannot know,
the shadows of
another still exist. I bring my
memories, held too long in check,
to let them here shoulder
space and place to be.
And when I leave to
find another house,
I wonder, what among
these shades will be
left of me.
Our Grandmothers
She lay, skin down on the moist dirt,
the canebrake rustling
with the whispers of leaves, and
loud longing of hounds and
the ransack of hunters crackling the near branches.
She muttered, lifting her head a nod toward freedom,
I shall not, I shall not be moved.
She gathered her babies,
their tears slick as oil on black faces,
their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness.
Momma, is Master going to sell you
from us tomo
rrow?
Yes.
Unless you keep walking more
and talking less.
Yes.
Unless the keeper of our lives
releases me from all commandments.
Yes.
And your lives,
never mine to live,
will be executed upon the killing floor of innocents.
Unless you match my heart and words,
saying with me,
I shall not be moved. In Virginia tobacco fields,
leaning into the curve
of Steinway
pianos, along Arkansas roads,
in the red hills of Georgia,
into the palms of her chained hands, she
cried against calamity,
You have tried to destroy me
and though I perish daily,
I shall not be moved.
Her universe, often
summarized into one black body
falling finally from the tree to her feet,
made her cry each time in a new voice,
All my past hastens to defeat,
and strangers claim the glory of my love,
Iniquity has bound me to his bed,
yet, I must not be moved.
She heard the names,
swirling ribbons in the wind of history:
igger, nigger bitch, heifer,
mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon,
whore, hot tail, thing, it.
She said, But my description cannot
fit your tongue, for
I have a certain way of being in this world,
and I shall not, I shall not be moved.
No angel stretched protecting wings
above the heads of her children,
fluttering and urging the winds of reason into the confusion of their lives.
They sprouted like young weeds,
but she could not shield their growth
from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor
shape them into symbolic topiaries.
She sent them away,
underground, overland, in coaches and
shoeless.
When you learn, teach.
When you get, give.
As for me,
I shall not be moved.
She stood in midocean, seeking dry land.
She searched God's face.
Assured,
she placed her fire of service
on the altar, and though
clothed in the finery of faith,
when she appeared at the temple door,
no sign welcomed
Black Grandmother. Enter here.
Into the crashing sound,
into wickedness, she cried,
No one, no, nor no one million
ones dare deny me God. I go forth
alone, and stand as ten thousand.
The Divine upon my right
impels me to pull forever
at the latch on Freedom's gate.
The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my
feet without ceasing into the camp of the
righteous and into the tents of the free.
These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-purple, honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted down a pyramid of years. She is Sheba and Sojourner, Harriet and Zora, Mary Bethune and Angela, Annie to Zenobia.
She stands
before the abortion clinic,
confounded by the lack of choices.
In the Welfare line,
reduced to the pity of handouts.
Ordained in the pulpit, shielded
by the mysteries.
In the operating room,
husbanding life.
In the choir loft,
holding God in her throat.
On lonely street corners,
hawking her body.
In the classroom, loving the
children to understanding.
Centered on the world's stage,
she sings to her loves and beloveds,
to her foes and detractors:
However I am perceived and deceived,
however my ignorance and conceits,
lay aside your fears that I will be undone,
for I shall not be moved.
Preacher, Don't Send Me
Preacher, don't send me
when I die
to some big ghetto
in the sky
where rats eat cats
of the leopard type
and Sunday brunch
is grits and tripe.
I've known those rats
I've seen them kill
and gritsI've had
would make a hill,
or maybe a mountain,
so what I need
from you on Sunday
is a different creed.
Preacher, please don't promise me streets of gold and milk for free.
I stopped all milk at four years old and once I'm dead I won't need gold.
I'd call a place
pure paradise
where families are loyal
and strangers are nice,
where the music is jazz
and the season is fall.
Promise me that
or nothing at all.
Fightin’ Was Natural
Fightin’ was natural,
hurtin’ was real,
and the leather like lead
on the end of my arm
was a ticket to ride
to the top of the hill.Fightin’ was real.
The sting of the ointment
and scream of the crowd
for blood in the ring,
and the clangin’ bell cuttin’
clean through the
cloud in my ears.
Boxin’ was real.
The rope at my back
and the pad on the floor,
the smack of four hammers,
new bones in my jaw,
the guard in my mouth,
my tongue startin’ to swell.
Fightin’ was livin'.
Boxin’ was real.
Fightin’ was real.
Livin’ was … hell.
Loss of Love
The loss of love and youth
and fire came raiding, riding,
a horde of plunderers
on one caparisoned steed,
sucking up the sun drops,
trampling the green shoots
of my carefully planted years.
The evidence: thickened waist and
leathery thighs, which triumph
over my fallen insouciance.
After fifty-five
the arena has changed.
I must enlist new warriors.
My resistance,
once natural as raised voices,
importunes in the dark.
Is this battle worth the candle?
Is this war worth the wage?
May I not greet age
without a grouse, allowing
the truly young to own
the stage?
Seven Women's Blessed Assurance
1
One thing about me,
I'm little and low,
find me a man
wherever I go.
2
They call me string bean
‘cause I'm so tall.
Men see me,
they ready to fall.
3
I'm young as morning
and fresh as dew.
Everybody loves me
and so do you.
4
I'm fat as butter
and sweet as cake.
Men start to tremble
each time I shake.
5
I'm little and lean,
sweet to the bone.
They like to pick me up
and carry me home.
6
When I passed forty
I dropped pretens
e,
‘cause men like women
who got some sense.
7
Fifty-five is perfect,
so is fifty-nine,
‘cause every man needs
to rest sometime.
In My Missouri
In my Missouri
I had known a mean man
A hard man
A cold man
Gutting me and killing me
Was an Ice man
A tough man
A man.
So I thought I'd never meet a sweet man
A kind man
A true man
One who in darkness you can feel secure man
A sure man
A man.
But Jackson, Mississippi, has some fine men
Some strong men
Some black men
Walking like an army were the sweet men
The brown men
The men.
In Oberlin, Ohio, there were nice men
Just men
And fair men
Reaching out and healing were the warm men
Were good men
The men.
Now I know that there are good and bad men
Some true men
Some rough men
Women, keep on searching for your own man
The best man
For you man
The man.
They Ask Why
A certain person wondered why
a big strong girl like me
wouldn't keep a job
which paid a normal salary.
I took my time to lead her
and to read her every page.
Even minimal people
can't survive on minimal wage.
A certain person wondered why
I wait all week for you.
I didn't have the words
to describe just what you do.
I said you had the motion
of the ocean in your walk,