why do you let them?
come and leave?
like them and
love you, too?
what is the reason
behind settling for
sticks and stones?
for dimming your glow?
how come half their heart
is good enough for all or
your soul?
you bend back and break
bones for themin your home–
and yet they are allowed to stay
and make a mess of you.
why do you let them?
by Alex Elle
a small hair sprouts
defying the odds
bursting through the surface
only to crinkle and bend
like palm trees in the wind
coconut oil eases the shaft
from root to ends
smooth, dipping my curls
into the Atlantic
becoming one with the island
and the wave
and the nappiness
of my kitchen
the way she might have as a child on family vacations
her thick black locs hang
like freedom
and nooses
and mangoes
strong and sweet as sugarcane
standing up
resisting gravity
and the box that bottles beauty
I have ruled
for forty years,
seven in hebron
thirty-three in Jerusalem
I have lain under the stars
and dreamed of foreign women.
I have dreamed my legs around them,
dancing.
some nights,
holding them in the dream,
I would feel us
swallowed by the sky.
lately I have begun to bed
with virgins,
their round breasts warm
to an old man.
I hold my seed
still plentiful as stars.
it is not my time.
somewhere something is choosing.
I can feel it dancing in me,
something to do with
virgins and with stars.
I am grown old and full of days.
my thighs are trembling.
what will the world remember,
what matters to time,
I wonder,
the dancer or the dance?
–Lucille Clifton
Don’t smile
for some reason smiling is a sin that tempts the devil inside most people to cross that line
between polite and creepy
Don’t fear the boys who follow you
like dogs sniffing at the scent of your heels pressing the pavement
running will only encourage those emboldened by the cover of night
Never slouch or try to disappear into yourself
this will only make them want you more
Hold your chin parallel to the ground
more often than not they just want the queen they see gliding by to soften
to cuddle their crusted over sense of rage and rejection
to hold not knowing how so they reach out and grab
You remind them of ma and grandma pounding yam in the kitchen before dinner
of Sunday school mornings and hide-and-go-freak evenings
of their first dirty magazine
and the embarrassment of not knowing how to kiss because no one tells them what they’re expected to know
Don’t offend when skulked
Watch your shadow in a reflection
it will meet a person too close
before your eyes do
Don’t back down when challenged
and balance your bags on both shoulders
Don’t let that comment burrow inside
I know you’re tired
but home is waiting just there
and that place
you should keep safe…
and defend
by any means
necessary.
An English poet, Philip Larkin, said that poetry doesn’t start with an idea; it starts with a poem…
You have to be open to mystery. If you are open to it, mystery will come.
If you’re not, why should it, actually?
–Lucille Clifton
Thus she had lain
sugar cane sweet
deserts her hair
golden her feet
mountains her breasts
two Niles her tears
Thus she has lain
Black through the years.
Over the white seas
rime white and cold
brigands ungentled
icicle bold
took her young daughters
sold her strong sons
churched her with Jesus
bled her with guns.
Thus she has lain.
Now she is rising
remember her pain
remember the losses
her screams loud and vain
remember her riches
her history slain
now she is striding
although she had lain.
–Maya Angelou
i was leaving my fifty-eighth year
when a thumb of ice
stamped itself hard near my heart
you have your own story
you know about the fear the tears
the scar of disbelief
you know that the saddest lies
are the ones we tell ourselves
you know how dangerous it is
to be born with breats
you know how dangerous it is
to wear dark skin
i was leaving my fifty-eighth year
when i woke into the winter
of a cold and mortal body
thin icicles hanging off
the one mad nipple weeping
have we not been good children
did we not inherit the earth
but you must know all about this
from your own shivering life
–Lucille Clifton
To show the lab’ring bosom’s deep intent,
Maya Angelou, my hero, died at age 86 in her beautiful home in North Carolina today.
“She lived a life as a teacher, activist, artist and human being. She was a warrior for equality, tolerance and peace,” said her son, Guy B. Johnson.
Her poem “Still I Rise,” was the first I ever recited, ever memorized, ever performed, and ever loved. As a kid her words found me in a dark place when no one else’s did, and continue to inspire me to rise beyond who I was. My only hope is that she passed knowing that she moved countless generations to poetry, and that she fermented a love of language that could leap oceans.
Inaugural, outstanding poet, will never cover how much Maya Angelou meant to the literary community. Her life and works awe millions. So I challenge you this day, in honor of a woman who was always more than just a poet, to rise above and believe that words can make a difference. In truth, they are the only things that have ever infected and effected change.
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Does my haughtiness offend you? Don’t you take it awful hard ‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines Diggin’ in my own backyard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I’ve got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.
The Poetry Corner 