fat
really,
anyway.
ix
Someone said
to
me
that
if
the South
rises
again
it will do so
“from
the grave.”
Someone
else
said
if the South
rises
again
he would
“step on
it.”
Dick Gregory
said that
if the
South
rises
again
there is
a
secret
plan.
But I say—
if the
South
rises
again
It will not
do
so
in my presence.
x
“but I don’
really
give a fuck
Who
my daughter
marries—”
the lady
was
adorable—
it was in a
tavern
i remember
her daughter
sat there
beside her
tugging
at
her arm
sixteen—
very shy
and
very pim
pled.
xi
then there
was
the charming
half-wit
who told
the judge
re: indecent exposure
“but when I
step out
of the
tub
I look
Good—
just because
my skin
is black
don’t mean
it ain’t
pretty
you old bastard!)
what will we
finally do
with
prejudice
some people like
to take a walk
after a bath.
xii
“look, honey
said
the
blond
amply
boobed
babe
in the
green
g
string
“i like you
sure
i ain’t
prejudiced
but the
lord didn’t
give me
legs
like
these
because
he
wanted
to see’m
dangling
from a
poplar!”
“But they’re so
much
prettier
than mine.
Would you really mind?”
he asked
wanting her to dance.
xiii
I remember
seeing
a little girl,
dreaming—perhaps,
hit by
a
van truck
“That nigger was
in the way!” the
man
said
to
understanding cops.
But was she?
She was
just eight
her mother
said
and little
for
her age.
xiv
then there was
the
picture of
the
bleak-eyed
little black
girl
waving the
american
flag
holding it
gingerly
with
the very
tips
of her
fingers.
CHIC FREEDOM’S REFLECTION
(for Marilyn Pryce)
One day
Marilyn marched
beside me (demon-
stration)
and we ended up
at county farm
no phone
no bail
something about
“traffic vio-
lation”
which irrelevance
Marilyn dismissed
with a shrug
She
had just got
back
from
Paris France
In
the
Alabama
hell
she
smell-
ed
so
wonderful
like
spring
& love
&
freedom
She
wore a
SNCC pin
right between
her breasts
near her
heart
& with a chic
(on “jail?”)
accent
& nod of
condescent
to frumpy
work-house
hags
powdered her nose
tip-
toe
in a badge.
SOUTH:
THE NAME OF HOME
i
all that night
I prayed for eyes to see again
whose last sight
had been
a broken bottle
held negligently
in a racist
fist
God give us trees to plant
and hands and eyes to
love them.
ii
When I am here again
the years of ease between
fall away
The smell of one
magnolia
sends my heart
running through the swamps.
iii
the earth is red
here— the trees bent, weeping
what secrets will not
the ravished land
reveal
of its abuse?
iv
an old mistress
of my mother’s
gives me
bloomers for Christmas
ten sizes
too big
her intentions are
good my father
says
but typical—
neither the color
she knows
nor the
number.
HYMN
I well remember
A time when
“Amazing Grace” was
All the rage
In the South.
‘Happy’ black mothers arguing
Agreement with
Illiterate sweating preachers
Hemming and hawing blessedness
Meekness
Inheritance of earth, e.g.,
Mississippi cotton fields?
And in the North
Roy Hamilton singing
“What is America to me?”
Such a good question
From a nice slum
In North Philly.
My God! the songs and
The people and the lives
Started here—
Weaned on ‘happy’ tears
Black fingers clutching black teats
On black Baptist benches—
Some mother’s troubles that everybody’s
Seen
And nobody wants to see.
I can remember the rocking of
The church
And embarrassment
At my mother’s shouts
Like it was all—‘her happiness’—
Going to kill her.
My father’s snores
Punctuating eulogies
His loud singing
Into fluffy grey caskets
A sleepy tear
In his eye.
Amazing Grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch
Like me
I once was lost
But now I’m found
Was blind
But now
I see.
Mahalia Jackson, Clara Ward, Fats Waller,
Ray Charles,
Sitting here embarrassed with me
Watching the birth
Hearing the cries
Bearing witness
To the child,
Music.
THE DEMOCRATIC ORDER:
SUCH THINGS IN TWENTY YEARS
I UNDERSTOOD
My father
(back blistered)
beat me
because I
could not
stop crying.
He’d had
enough ‘fuss’
he said
for one damn
voting day.
THEY WHO FEEL DEATH
(for martyrs)
They who feel death close as a breath
Speak loudly in unlighted rooms
Lounge upright in articulate gesture
Before the herd of jealous Gods
Fate finds them receiving
At home.
Grim the warrior forest who present
Casual silence with casual battle cries
Or stand unflinchingly lodged
In common sand
Crucified.
ON BEING ASKED TO LEAVE A PLACE OF HONOR FOR ONE OF COMFORT; PREFERABLY IN THE NORTHERN
SUBURBS
(for those who work and stay in the ragged Mississippis of the world)
In this place of helmets and tar
the anxious burblings of recreants
buzz over us
we bent laughing to oars of gold
We regard them as Antigone her living kin
Fat chested pigeons
resplendent of prodigious riches
reaped in body weight
taking bewildered pecks
at eagles
as though muck
were God.
THE ENEMY
in gray, scarred Leningrad
a tiny fist unsnapped to show
crumpled heads
of pink and yellow flowers
snatched hurriedly on the go
in the cold spring shower—
consent or not
countries choose
cold or hot
win or lose
to speak of wars
yellow and red
but there is much
let it be said
for children.
COMPULSORY CHAPEL
i
A quiet afternoon
the speaker
dull
the New Testament
washed out
Through the window
a lonely
blue-jay
makes noisy song.
ii
The speaker crashes
on
through his speech
All eyes are
upon him
Over his left
ear
the thick hair
is beginning
to slip.
iii
I would not mind
if I were
a sinner,
but as it is
—let me assure you—
I sleep alone.
TO THE MAN
IN THE YELLOW TERRY
Dawn came at six today
Held back by hope
A lost cause—
Melted like snow
In the middle of
The day.
The sun shines clear fire
The earth once more
Like it was—
Old promises
Rise up
(Our honored
Ghosts)
And the lonely truths
Of love
Pledged.
Here we lie
You and I—
Your mind, unaccountable,
My mind simply
Stopped—
Like a clock struck
By the treachery
Of time.
The sky blue, empty,
Unfathomable—
As I am.
Look at it brighten
And fill and
Astonish
With each movement
Of your
Eyes.
The wren who does not
Sing
I take my simple
Flight
Silent, unmetaphoric
Dressed in brown
I say
Good-bye.
Will you think it funny
Later on
To find you had
Almost
Given shelter
To a
Thief?
i was kissed once
by a beautiful man
all blond and
czech
riding through bratislava
on a motor bike
screeching “don’t yew let me fall off heah naow!”
the funny part was
he spoke english
and setting me gallantly
on my feet
kissed me for
not anyhow looking
like aunt jemima.
WHAT OVID TAUGHT ME
What does it matter? you ask
If protocol
falls
After artichokes
and steak,
Vivaldi
and
No
Wine
For God’s sake
Let’s not be traditional!
But I,
Unused bed
All tousled
Sing nursery rhymes
Chant
Strange
Chants
Count stray insects
On the ceiling
and
Wonder—
Why don’t you shut up and
get in?
MORNINGS / of an impossible love
On the morning you woke beside me—already thinking of going away—the sun did not fill my window as it does most mornings. Instead there was cloud and threat of snow. How I wish it could always be this way—that on mornings he cannot come himself, the sun might send me you.
Watching you frown at your face in the mirror this morning I almost thought you disapproved of the little dark shadow standing behind you its arms around your waist.…
Two mornings ago you left my little house. Only two steps from my fingers & you were gone, swallowed down swiftly by my spiral stairs.…
Why do you wish to give me over to someone else? “Such and such young man you’re sure to like” you say “for he is a fine, cheerful fellow, very sensitive” one thing and another. Sometimes it is as if you’d never listened to my heartbeat, never heard my breathing in your ear, never seen my eyes when you say such things.…
This is what you told me once. Must I believe you? “We are really Easterners, you and I. The rising of the Sun brings with it our whole Philosophy.”
SO WE’VE COME AT LAST TO FREUD
Do not hold my few years
against me
In my life, childhood
was a myth
So long ago it seemed, even
in the cradle.
Don’t label my love with slogans;
My father can’t be blamed
for my affection
; Or lack of it;
ask him.
He won’t understand you.
Don’t sit on holy stones
as you,
Loving me
and hating me, condemn.
There is no need for that.
I like to think that I, though
young it’s true,
Know what
I’m doing.
That I, once unhappy, am
Now
Quite sanely
jubilant,
& that neither you
Nor I can
Deny
That no matter how
“Sick”
The basis
is
Of what we have,
What we do have
Is Good.
JOHANN
You look at me with children
In your eyes,
Blond, blue-eyed
Teutons
Charmingly veiled
In bronze
Got from me.
What would Hitler say?
I am brown-er
Than a jew
Being one step
Beyond that Colored scene.
You are the Golden Boy,
Shiny but bloody
And with that ancient martial tune
Only your heart is out of step—
You love.
But even knowing love
I shrink from you. Blond
And Black; it is too charged a combination.
Charged with past and present wars,
Charged with frenzy
and with blood
Dare I kiss your German mouth?
Touch the perfect muscles
Underneath the yellow shirt
Blending coolly
With your yellow
Hair?
I shudder at the whiteness
Of your hands.
Blue is too cold a color
For eyes.
But white, I think, is the color
Of honest flowers,
And blue is the color
Of the sky.
Come closer then and hold out to me
Your white and faintly bloodied hands.
I will kiss your German mouth
And will touch the helpless
White skin, gone red,
Beneath the yellow shirt.
I will rock the yellow head against
My breast, brown and yielding.
But I tell you, love,
There is still much to fear.
We have only seen the
First of wars
First of frenzies
First of blood.
Someday, perhaps, we will be
Made to learn
That blond and black
Cannot love.
But until that rushing day
I will not reject you.
I will kiss your fearful
German mouth.
And you—
Look at me boldly
With surging, brown-blond teutons
In your eyes.
THE SMELL OF LEBANON
in balmy
iconic
prague
I offered
my bosom
to a wandering arab student