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wildeyed

(11,240 posts)
Sat Mar 19, 2016, 07:22 PM Mar 2016

Poetry, anyone?

I could use a break from primary madness....

I am not particularly well read when it comes to poetry. Didn't start reading it until I had kids. I missed reading serious literature because the kids would interrupt me anytime I got focused and then it was hard to pick up the thread of thought again. But poetry worked because you can read the same passage over and over and it is fine.

I have even less knowledge of AA poets, but I ran across this one by Langston Hughes the other day. It is short, sweet and to the point. Maybe some can relate?


Genius Child

This is a song for the genius child.
Sing it softly, for the song is wild.
Sing it softly as ever you can -
Lest the song get out of hand.

Nobody loves a genius child.

Can you love an eagle,
Tame or wild?
Can you love an eagle,
Wild or tame?
Can you love a monster
Of frightening name?

Nobody loves a genius child.

Kill him - and let his soul run wild.




This one is famous, wonderful and perfect for the political season, Let America Be America Again.

Let America be America again
Let it be the dream it used to be
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath
But opportunity is real, and life is free
Equality is in the air we breathe

(There's never been equality for me
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.&quot

more....


I am also looking for recommendations. I have an anthology of Audre Lorde from the library. I have been flipping it open at random and reading, but it might be helpful to get a little direction on her "greatest hits". It is a loooong book. She was prolific.

And please post anything else you are particularly in love with. Poetry is great like that. You can dip in and get a good taste without committing too much time.

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Poetry, anyone? (Original Post) wildeyed Mar 2016 OP
Just thinking about this one always makes me cry. SusanCalvin Mar 2016 #1
BLUES FOR AN AFRICAN PRINCESS elleng Mar 2016 #2
Oldies qwlauren35 Mar 2016 #3
Love the Countee Cullen. wildeyed Mar 2016 #7
Langston Hughes qwlauren35 Mar 2016 #4
I have loved I, Too, Sing America wildeyed Mar 2016 #8
From the 1980's qwlauren35 Mar 2016 #5
Maya Angelou qwlauren35 Mar 2016 #6
These are all so amazing! wildeyed Mar 2016 #9
You can never go wrong with Arna Bontemps Recursion Mar 2016 #10

elleng

(130,126 posts)
2. BLUES FOR AN AFRICAN PRINCESS
Sat Mar 19, 2016, 11:18 PM
Mar 2016

Sad eyed Ghanaian girl
how you know so much
so soon?
Dealing with the world
with gentle persistence
Teaching me while you
act like you learnin.
Looking at me out of
ancient African eyes
deep enough
to drown in
Lookin at me like
I'm ten feet tall
and me stretchin to be it
an almost makin it
an everybody surprised
but you

COMPENSATION

How many mans?
Hey, man,
Cool, man,
Mellow, man,
Yeah, man!
To compensate
for the Man's
no, boy . . .

by Sam Greenlee



Cover by Marvin M. Young


http://www.amazon.com/Blues-African-Princess-Sam-Greenlee/dp/0883780194

qwlauren35

(6,112 posts)
3. Oldies
Mon Mar 21, 2016, 10:38 AM
Mar 2016

We Wear the Mask - Paul Lawrence Dunbar

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

Old Black Men - Georgia Douglas Johnson

They have dreamed as young men dream
Of glory, love and power;
They have hoped as youth will hope
Of life’s sun-minted hour.

They have seen as others saw
Their bubbles burst in air,
They have learned to live it down
As though they did not care.

If We Must Die - Claude McKay
(written to commemorate a series of riots)

If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.

If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!

O kinsmen we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
What though before us lies the open grave?

Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

Incident - Countee Cullen

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee;
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, "Ni**er."

I saw the whole of Balimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.

qwlauren35

(6,112 posts)
4. Langston Hughes
Mon Mar 21, 2016, 10:39 AM
Mar 2016

Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.



I, Too, Sing America

I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--
I, too, am America.



Dream Variations

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me--
That is my dream!
To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

Dream Deferred

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

wildeyed

(11,240 posts)
8. I have loved I, Too, Sing America
Mon Mar 21, 2016, 11:15 AM
Mar 2016

for a long time.

"Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--
I, too, am America."

So true, hopeful, proud and strong.

qwlauren35

(6,112 posts)
5. From the 1980's
Mon Mar 21, 2016, 10:50 AM
Mar 2016

revolution
For my father, wilmer I. gilmore
By Brian Gilmore (1962- )

my father was a dictator
in 1968 dad suspended the house
constitution
instituted a state of emergency
suspended any rights that television
made us think we had
he declared tarzan a fake
nat turner important
malcolm x a brother that
we must understand
it was strange this regime;
it promulgated propaganda about
the importance of reading books
the danger of always watching television
and how
being black was the coolest thing
you could ever know.

often my brother and I rebelled against
this totalitarian despot,
we declared civil war by
staying out on the streets until 4 or 5 a.m.
all the time.
el presidente would be awake
always when we returned.
calm in his demeanor, he greeted us with
one of those well prepared 4-hour speeches like
fidel castro. This constant pounding
on our brains made us
surrender eventually and end our unrest after
nearly 20 years of disorganized resistance.
the will of this monarch
became our will:
like, you will go to school
you will not f*** up your life.
.
now when I stop by my father’s house
the state of emergency is over
the revolution he declared was successful
the laws he passed are no longer in need
of enforcement.
.
these presidential duties are exclusively mine now
and if
i am ever so lucky to become
a dictator
i shall not hesitate
to “dis”
tarzan and give really long
speeches
in
another language.

qwlauren35

(6,112 posts)
6. Maya Angelou
Mon Mar 21, 2016, 10:51 AM
Mar 2016

PHENOMENAL WOMAN
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
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 of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Maya Angelou

AND STILL I RISE
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 back yard.

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.

Maya Angelou
ON THE PULSE OF THE MORNING
(also entitled The Rock Cries Out to Us Today)
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers--
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours--your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes,
Into your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

wildeyed

(11,240 posts)
9. These are all so amazing!
Mon Mar 21, 2016, 11:27 AM
Mar 2016

Thanks to everyone for posting.

One from the Audre Lorde I am reading.... It was like a piece of hard candy rolling around in my mouth. Nice, but nothing special. And then I crunched down on it lightly, found the center, and is was complex, chewy and delicious.

Good Mirrors Are Not Cheap
By Audre Lorde

It is a waste of time hating a mirror
or its reflection
instead of stopping the hand
that makes glass with distortions
slight enough to pass
unnoticed
until one day you peer
into your face
under a merciless white light
and the fault in a mirror slaps back
becoming
what you think
is the shape of your error
and if I am beside that self
you destroy me
or if you can see
the mirror is lying
you shatter the glass
choosing another blindness
and slashed helpless hands.

Because at the same time
down the street
a glassmaker is grinning
turning out new mirrors that lie
selling us
new clowns
at cut rate.

Recursion

(56,582 posts)
10. You can never go wrong with Arna Bontemps
Tue Mar 22, 2016, 04:45 AM
Mar 2016
http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/a_f/bontemps/additionalpoems.htm

All night they whine upon their ropes and boom
against the dock with helpless prows:
these little ships that are too worn for sailing
front the wharf but do not rest at all.
Tugging at the dim gray wharf they think
no doubt of China and of bright Bombay,
and they remember islands of the East,
Formosa and the mountains of Japan.
They think of cities ruined by the sea
and they are restless, sleeping at the wharf.

Tugging at the dim gray wharf they think
no less of Africa. An east wind blows
and salt spray sweeps the unattended decks.
Shouts of dead men break upon the night.
The captain calls his crew and they respond--
the little ships are dreaming--land is near.
But mist comes up to dim the copper coast,
mist dissembles images of the trees.
The captain and his men alike are lost
and their shouts go down in the rising sound of waves.

Ah little ships, I know your weariness!
I know the sea-green shadows of your dream.
For I have loved the cities of the sea,
and desolations of the old days I
have loved: I was a wanderer like you
and I have broken down before the wind.
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