they will discern the inevitable:
We do not worship them.
We do not worship them.
We do not worship what they have made.
We do not trust them.
We do not believe what they say.
We do not love their efficiency.
Or their power plants.
We do not love their factories.
Or their smog.
We do not love their television programs.
Or their radioactive leaks.
We find their papers boring.
We do not worship their cars.
We do not worship their blondes.
We do not envy their penises.
We do not think much
of their Renaissance.
We are indifferent to England.
We have grave doubts about their brains.
In short, we who write, paint, sculpt, dance
or sing
share the intelligence and thus the fate
of all our people
in this land.
We are not different from them,
neither above nor below,
outside nor inside.
We are the same.
And we do not worship them.
We do not worship them.
We do not worship their movies.
We do not worship their songs.
We do not think their newscasts
cast the news.
We do not admire their president.
We know why the White House is white.
We do not find their children irresistible;
We do not agree they should inherit the earth.
But lately you have begun to help them
bury us. You who said: King was just a womanizer;
Malcom, just a thug; Sojourner, folksy; Hansberry,
a traitor (or whore, depending); Fannie Lou Hamer,
merely spunky; Zora Hurston, Nella Larsen, Toomer:
reactionary, brainwashed, spoiled by whitefolks, minor;
Agnes Smedley, a spy.
I look into your eyes;
you are throwing in the dirt.
You, standing in the grave
with me. Stop it!
Each one must pull one.
Look, I, temporarily on the rim
of the grave,
have grasped my mother’s hand
my father’s leg.
There is the hand of Robeson
Langston’s thigh
Zora’s arm and hair
your grandfather’s lifted chin
the lynched woman’s elbow
what you’ve tried to forget
of your grandmother’s frown.
Each one, pull one back into the sun
We who have stood over
so many graves
know that no matter what they do
all of us must live
or none.
WHO?
Who has not been
invaded
by the Wasichu?
Not I, said the people.
Not I, said the trees.
Not I, said the waters.
Not I, said the rocks.
Not I, said the air.
Moon!
We hoped
you were safe.
WITHOUT
COMMERCIALS
Listen,
stop tanning yourself
and talking about
fishbelly
white.
The color white
is not bad at all.
There are white mornings
that bring us days.
Or, if you must,
tan only because
it makes you happy
to be brown,
to be able to see
for a summer
the whole world’s
darker
face
reflected
in your own.
*
Stop unfolding
your eyes.
Your eyes are
beautiful.
Sometimes
seeing you in the street
the fold zany
and unexpected
I want to kiss
them
and usually
it is only
old
gorgeous
black people’s eyes
I want
to kiss.
**
Stop trimming
your nose.
When you
diminish
your nose
your songs
become little
tinny, muted
and snub.
Better you should
have a nose
impertinent
as a flower,
sensitive
as a root;
wise, elegant,
serious and deep.
A nose that
sniffs
the essence
of Earth. And knows
the message
of every
leaf.
***
your skin
and talking
about
so much black
is not beautiful
The color black
is not bad
at all.
There are black nights
that rock
us
in dreams.
Or, if you must,
bleach only
because it pleases you
to be brown,
to be able to see
for as long
as you can bear it
the whole world’s
lighter face
reflected
in your own.
****
As for me,
I have learned
to worship
the sun
again.
To affirm
the adventures
of hair.
For we are all
splendid
descendants
of Wilderness,
Eden:
needing only
to see
each other
without
commercials
to believe.
Copied skillfully
as Adam.
Original
as Eve.
NO ONE CAN
WATCH THE
WASICHU
No one can watch
the Wasichu
anymore
He is always
penetrating
a people
whose country
is too small
for him
His bazooka
always
sticking up
from some
howling
mother’s
backyard.
No one can watch
the Wasichu
anymore
He is always
squashing
something
Somebody’s guts
trailing
his shoe.
No one can watch
the Wasichu
anymore
He is scalping
the earth
till she runs
into the ocean
The dust of her
flight
searing
our sight.
No one can watch
the Wasichu
anymore
Smirking
into our bedrooms
with his
terrible
Nightly News …
No one can watch
the Wasichu
anymore.
Regardless.
He has filled
our every face
with his window.
Our every window
; with
his face.
THE THING ITSELF
Now I am going
to rape you,
you joked;
after a pleasure
wrung
from me.
With playful roughness
you dragged my body
to meet yours;
on your face
the look of
mock
lust
you think
all real women
like
As all “real” women
really
like rape.
Lying
barely breathing
beneath
your heaving
heaviness
I fancied I saw
my great-great-grandmother’s
small hands
encircle
your pale neck.
There was no
pornography
in her world
from which to learn
to relish the pain.
(She was the thing
itself.)
Oh, you who seemed
the best of them,
my own sad
Wasichu;
in what gibberish
was our freedom
engraved on
our chains.
TORTURE
When they torture your mother
plant a tree
When they torture your father
plant a tree
When they torture your brother
and your sister
plant a tree
When they assassinate
your leaders
and lovers
plant a tree
When they torture you
too bad
to talk
plant a tree.
When they begin to torture
the trees
and cut down the forest
they have made
start another.
WELL.
Well.
He was a poet
a priest
a revolutionary
compañero
and we were right
to be seduced.
He brought us greetings
from his countrypeople
and informed us
with lifted
fist
that they would not
be moved.
All his poems
were eloquent.
I liked
especially
the one
that said
the revolution
must
liberate
the cougars, the trees,
and the lakes;
when he read it
everyone
breathed
relief;
ecology
lives
of all places
in Central
America!
we thought.
And then he read
a poem
about Grenada
and we
smiled
until he began
to describe
the women:
Well. One woman
when she smiled
had shiny black
lips
which reminded him
of black legs
(vaselined, no doubt),
her whole mouth
to the poet
revolutionary
suddenly
a leg
(and one said
What?)
Another one,
duly noted by
the priest,
apparently
barely attentive
at a political
rally
eating
a mango
Another wears
a red dress,
her breasts
(no kidding!)
like coconuts .…
Well. Nobody ever said
supporting other people’s revolutions
wouldn’t make us
ill:
But what a pity
that
the poet
the priest
and the revolution
never seem
to arrive
for the black woman,
herself.
Only for her black lips
or her black leg
does one or the other
arrive;
only for her
devouring mouth
always depicted
in the act
of eating
something colorful
only for her breasts
like coconuts
and her red dress.
SONG
The world is full of colored
people
People of Color
Tra-la-la
The world is full of
colored people
Tra-la-la-la-la.
They have black hair
and black and brown
eyes
The world is full of
colored people
Tra-la-la.
The world is full of colored
people
People of Color
Tra-la-la
The world is full of colored
people
Tra-la-la-la-la.
Their skins are pink and yellow
and brown
All colored people
People of Color
Colored people
Tra-la-la.
Some have full lips
Some have thin
Full of colored people
People of Color
Colored lips
Tra-la-la.
The world is full of
colored people
People of Color
Colorful people
Tra-la-la!
THESE DAYS
Some words for people I think of as friends.
These days I think of Belvie
swimming happily in the country pond
coating her face with its mud.
She says:
“We could put the whole bottom of this pond in jars
and sell it to the folks
in the city!”
Lying in the sun she dreams
of making our fortune, à la Helena Rubenstein.
Bottling the murky water
too smelly to drink,
offering exotic mud facials and mineral baths
at exorbitant fees.
But mostly she lies in the sun
dreaming of water, sun and the earth
itself—
Surely the earth can be saved for Belvie.
These days I think of Robert
folding his child’s tiny shirts
consuming TV dinners (“A kind of processed flavor”)
rushing off each morning to school—then to the office,
the supermarket, the inevitable meeting: writing,
speaking, marching against oppression, hunger,
ignorance.
And in between having a love affair
with tiny wildflowers and gigantic
rocks.
“Look at this one!” he cries,
as a small purple face
raises its blue eye to the sun.
“Wow, look at that one!” he says,
as we pass a large rock
reclining beside the road.
He is the man with child
the new old man.
Brushing hair, checking hands, nails
and teeth.
A sick child finds comfort
lying on his chest all night
as do I.
Surely the earth can be saved for Robert.
These days I think of Elena.
In the summers, for years, she camps
beside
the Northern rivers
sometimes with her children
sometimes with women friends
from “way, way back.”
She is never too busy to want at least
to join a demonstration
or to long to sit
beside
a river.
“I will not think less of you
if you do not attend this meeting,” she says,
making us compañeras for life.
Surely the earth can be saved for Elena.
These days I think of Susan;
so many of her people lost
in the Holocaust. Every time I see her
I can’t believe it.
“You have to have some of my cosmos seeds!”
she says
over the phone. “The blooms
are glorious!”
Whenever we are together
we eat a lot.
If I am at her house
it is bacon, boiled potatoes,
coffee and broiled fish:
if she is at my house it is
oyster stew, clams, artichokes
and wine.
Our dream is for time in which
to walk miles together, a couple
of weeds stuck between our teeth,
comfy in our yogi pants
discoursing on Woolf
and child raising,
essay writing and gardening.
Susan makes me happy
because she exists.
Surely the earth can be saved for Susan.
These days I think of Sheila.
“‘Sheila’ is already a spiritual name,” she says.
And “Try meditation and jogging both.”
When we are together we talk
and talk
about The Spirit.
About What is Good and What is Not.
There was a time she applauded my anger,
now she feels it is something I should outgrow.
“It is not a useful emotion,” she says. “And besides,
if you think about it, there’s nothing worth
getting angry about.”
“I do not like anger,” I say.
“It raises my blood pressure.
I do not like violence. So much has been done to me.
But having embraced my complete being
I find anger
and the capacity for violence
within me.
Control
rather than eradication
is about the best
I feel I can do.
Besides, they intend to murder us,
you know.”
“Yes, I understand,” she says.
“But try meditation
and jogging both;
you’ll be surprised how calm you feel.”
I meditate, walk briskly, and take deep, deep breaths
for I know the importance of peace to the inner self.
When I talk to Sheila
I am forced to honor
my own ideals.
Surely the earth can be saved for Sheila.
These days I think of Gloria.
“The mere sight of an airplane puts me to sleep,”
she says.
Since she is not the pilot, this makes sense.
If this were a courageous country,
it would ask Gloria to lead it
since she is sane and funny and beautiful and smart
and the National Leaders we’ve always had
are not.