"Love Song for Alex, 1979" by Margaret Walker

Love Song for Alex, 1979
by Margaret Walker

My monkey-wrench man is my sweet patootie;
the lover of my life, my youth and age.
My heart belongs to him and to him only;
the children of my flesh are his and bear his rage
Now grown to years advancing through the dozens
the honeyed kiss, the lips of wine and fire
fade blissfully into the distant years of yonder
but all my days of Happiness and wonder
are cradled in his arms and eyes entire.
They carry us under the waters of the world
out past the starposts of a distant planet
And creeping through the seaweed of the ocean
they tangle us with ropes and yarn of memories
where we have been together, you and I.

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"faithless" by Quaraysh Ali Lansana

faithless
by Quaraysh Ali Lansana

I would have freed thousands mo,
If dey had known dey were slaves.
Harriet

herd on da wind you come back fo me
didn’t think you come back fo me
didn’t think you come back at all
been so long my skin grew tired

dis life too hard to know all alone
caroline cover me jus fine
she a quilt ginst the cold in ma blood
she mend de torn spots in ma soul

aint got no mind ta leev dis place
go on moses   find yo promise lan
mines is here beside dis fire
wid folks we knows from when we’s born







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"Georgia Dusk" by Jean Toomer

Georgia Dusk
by Jean Toomer

The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue
   The setting sun, too indolent to hold
   A lengthened tournament for flashing gold,   
Passively darkens for night’s barbecue,

A feast of moon and men and barking hounds,   
   An orgy for some genius of the South
   With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,   
Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.

The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop,
   And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill,
   Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill   
Their early promise of a bumper crop.

Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust pile
   Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying low   
   Where only chips and stumps are left to show   
The solid proof of former domicile.

Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp,   
   Race memories of king and caravan,
   High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man,
Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp.

Their voices rise . . the pine trees are guitars,   
   Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain . .   
   Their voices rise . . the chorus of the cane
Is caroling a vesper to the stars . .

O singers, resinous and soft your songs
   Above the sacred whisper of the pines,
   Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines,
Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.







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"A Plagued Journey" by Maya Angelou

A Plagued Journey
by Maya Angelou

There is no warning rattle at the door   
nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer boards.   
Safe in the dark prison, I know that   
light slides over
the fingered work of a toothless   
woman in Pakistan.
Happy prints of
an invisible time are illumined.   
My mouth agape
rejects the solid air and
lungs hold. The invader takes   
direction and
seeps through the plaster walls.   
It is at my chamber, entering   
the keyhole, pushing
through the padding of the door.   
I cannot scream. A bone
of fear clogs my throat.
It is upon me. It is
sunrise, with Hope
its arrogant rider.
My mind, formerly quiescent
in its snug encasement, is strained
to look upon their rapturous visages,   
to let them enter even into me.   
I am forced
outside myself to
mount the light and ride joined with Hope.

Through all the bright hours   
I cling to expectation, until   
darkness comes to reclaim me
as its own. Hope fades, day is gone   
into its irredeemable place
and I am thrown back into the familiar   
bonds of disconsolation.
Gloom crawls around
lapping lasciviously
between my toes, at my ankles,   
and it sucks the strands of my   
hair. It forgives my heady   
fling with Hope. I am
joined again into its
greedy arms.

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"Knees of a Natural Man" by Henry Dumas

Knees of a Natural Man
by Henry Dumas

for Jay Wright

my ole man took me to the fulton fish market
we walk around in the guts and the scales

my ole man show me a dead fish, eyes like throat spit
he say “you hongry boy?” i say “naw, not yet”

my ole man show me how to pick the leavings
he say people throw away fish that not rotten

we scaling on our knees back uptown on lenox
sold five fish, keepin one for the pot

my ole man copped a bottle of wine
he say, “boy, build me a fire out in the lot”

backyard cat climbin up my leg for fish
i make a fire in the ash can

my ole man come when he smell fish
frank williams is with him, they got wine

my ole man say “the boy cotch the big one”
he tell big lie and slap me on the head

i give the guts to the cat and take me some wine
we walk around the sparks like we in hell

my ole man is laughin and coughin up wine
he say “you hongry boy” i say “naw, not yet”

next time i go to fulton fish market
first thing i do is take a long drink of wine






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"The Beauty of Black" by Margaret Burroughs

The Beauty of Black
by Margaret Burroughs

(May 22, 1965)

When we look at ourselves
We see ourselves through eyes
Which have been schooled
To see comely only the opaque, 
Comely to us skin that is fair,
Comely to us eyes that are light,
Comely to us hair that is straight,
Comely to us lips that are thin,
Our gods and goddesses
Glow in opalescent whiteness
And daily we worship at this shrine. 
Ugly to us our satin black skin,
Ugly to us our fulsome lips,
Ugly to us our midnight eyes,
Ugly to us our crisping hair
Thus we have rejected our image. 
But this is not as it should be
We black people must be born again.
Know that the black people like other races
Have their own distinct beauty,
Know that the Stygian night too is beautiful. 






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"To the Swimmer" by Countee Cullen

To the Swimmer
by Countee Cullen

Now as I watch you, strong of arm and endurance, battling and struggling
With the waves that rush against you, ever with invincible strength returning
Into my heart, grown each day more tranquil and peaceful, comes a fierce longing
Of mind and soul that will not be appeased until, like you, I breast yon deep and boundless expanse of blue.

With an outward stroke of power intense your mighty arm goes forth,
Cleaving its way through waters that rise and roll, ever a ceaseless vigil keeping
Over the treasures beneath.

My heart goes out to you of dauntless courage and spirit indomitable,
And though my lips would speak, my spirit forbids me to ask,
“Is your heart as true as your arm?”





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"alternate names for black boys" by Danez Smith

alternate names for black boys
by Danez Smith

1.   smoke above the burning bush
2.   archnemesis of summer night
3.   first son of soil
4.   coal awaiting spark & wind
5.   guilty until proven dead
6.   oil heavy starlight
7.   monster until proven ghost
8.   gone
9.   phoenix who forgets to un-ash
10. going, going, gone
11. gods of shovels & black veils
12. what once passed for kindling
13. fireworks at dawn
14. brilliant, shadow hued coral
15. (I thought to leave this blank
       but who am I to name us nothing?)
16. prayer who learned to bite & sprint
17. a mother’s joy & clutched breath

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"Appalachian Elegy (Sections 1-6)" by bell hooks

Appalachian Elegy (Sections 1-6)
by bell hooks

1.

hear them cry
the long dead
the long gone
speak to us
from beyond the grave
guide us
that we may learn
all the ways
to hold tender this land
hard clay direct
rock upon rock
charred earth
in time
strong green growth
will rise here
trees back to life
native flowers
pushing the fragrance of hope
the promise of resurrection

2.

such then is beauty
surrendered
against all hope
you are here again
turning slowly
nature as chameleon
all life change
and changing again
awakening hearts
steady moving from
unnamed loss
into fierce deep grief
that can bear all burdens
even the long passage
into a shadowy dark
where no light enters

3.

night moves
through the thick dark
a heavy silence outside
near the front window
a black bear
stamps down plants
pushing back brush
fleeing manmade
confinement
roaming unfettered
confident
any place can become home
strutting down
a steep hill
as though freedom
is all
in the now
no past
no present

4.

earth works
thick brown mud
clinging pulling
a body down
heard wounded earth cry
bequeath to me
the hoe the hope
ancestral rights
to turn the ground over
to shovel and sift
until history
rewritten resurrected
returns to its rightful owners
a past to claim
yet another stone lifted to
throw against the enemy
making way for new endings
random seeds
spreading over the hillside
wild roses
come by fierce wind and hard rain
unleashed furies
here in this touched wood
a dirge a lamentation
for earth to live again
earth that is all at once a grave
a resting place a bed of new beginnings
avalanche of splendor

5.

small horses ride me
carry my dreams
of prairies and frontiers
where once
the first people roamed
claimed union with the earth
no right to own or possess
no sense of territory
all boundaries
placed by unseen ones
here I will give you thunder
shatter your hearts with rain
let snow soothe you
make your healing water
clear sweet
a sacred spring
where the thirsty
may drink
animals all

6.

listen little sister
angels make their hope here
in these hills
follow me
I will guide you
careful now
no trespass
I will guide you
word for word
mouth for mouth
all the holy ones
embracing us
all our kin
making home here
renegade marooned
lawless fugitives
grace these mountains
we have earth to bind us
the covenant
between us
can never be broken
vows to live and let live






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"Under the Edge of February" by Jayne Cortez

Under the Edge of February
by Jayne Cortez

Under the edge of february
in hawk of a throat
hidden by ravines of sweet oil
by temples of switchblades
beautiful in its sound of fertility
beautiful in its turban of funeral crepe
beautiful in its camouflage of grief
in its solitude of bruises
in its arson of alert

Who will enter its beautiful calligraphy of blood

Its beautiful mask of fish net
mask of hubcaps mask of ice picks mask
of watermelon rinds mask of umbilical cords
changing into a mask of rubber bands
Who will enter this beautiful beautiful mask of
punctured bladders moving with a mask of chapsticks

Compound of Hearts   Compound of Hearts

Where is the lucky number for this shy love
this top-heavy beauty bathed with charcoal water
self-conscious against a mosaic of broken bottles
broken locks   broken pipes   broken
bloods of broken spirits broken through like
broken promises

Landlords  Junkies  Thieves
enthroning themselves in you
they burn up couches they burn down houses
and infuse themselves against memory
every thought
a pavement of old belts
every performance
a ceremonial pickup
how many more orphans  how many more neglected shrines
how many stolen feet  stolen fingers
stolen watchbands of death
in you how many times

Harlem

hidden by ravines of sweet oil
by temples of switchblades
beautiful in your sound of fertility
beautiful in your turban of funeral crepe
beautiful in your camouflage of grief
in your solitude of bruises
in your arson of alert
beautiful

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"The Healing Improvisation of Hair" by Jay Wright

The Healing Improvisation of Hair
by Jay Wright

If you undo your do you would
be strange. Hair has been on my mind.
I used to lean in the doorway
and watch my stony woman wind
the copper through the black, and play
with my understanding, show me she cóuld
take a cup of river water,
and watch it shimmy, watch it change,
turn around and become ash bone.
Wind in the cottonwoods wakes me
to a day so thin its breastbone
shows, so paid out it shakes me free
of its blue dust. I will arrange
that river water, bottom juice.
I conjure my head in the stream
and ride with the silk feel of it
as my woman bathes me, and shaves
away the scorn, sponges the grit
of solitude from my skin, laves
the salt water of self-esteem
over my feathering body.
How like joy to come upon me
in remembering a head of hair
and the way water would caress
it, and stress beauty in the flair
and cut of the only witness
to my dance under sorrow's tree.
This swift darkness is spring's first hour.

I carried my life, like a stone,
in a ragged pocket, but I
had a true weaving song, a sly
way with rhythm, a healing tone.

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"My Sister Says White Supremacy Is Turning Her Crazy" by Morgan Parker

My Sister Says White Supremacy Is Turning Her Crazy

by Morgan Parker

Pandemic of lilies                          dreaming majesty

hovers like sweat & unwraps you & you

               are in love

                              it makes you bad,    bad

                                                            is your name

               is the desert

               is movement                                      long kiss

heavy gut            slow

                                         slow hands                 in your seeds

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"reading" by Jacqueline Woodson

reading
by Jacqueline Woodson

I am not my sister.
Words from the books curl around each other
make little sense
until
I read them again
and again, the story
settling into memory. Too slow
the teacher says.
Read faster.
Too babyish, the teacher says.
Read older.
But I don’t want to read faster or older or
any way else that might
make the story disappear too quickly
from where it’s settling
inside my brain,
slowly becoming
a part of me.
A story I will remember
long after I’ve read it for the second,
third, tenth,
hundredth time.







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"The Laws of Motion" by Nikki Giovanni

The Laws of Motion
by Nikki Giovanni

(for Harlem Magic)

The laws of science teach us a pound of gold weighs as   
much as a pound of flour though if dropped from any   
undetermined height in their natural state one would
reach bottom and one would fly away

Laws of motion tell us an inert object is more difficult to   
propel than an object heading in the wrong direction is to   
turn around. Motion being energy—inertia—apathy.   
Apathy equals hostility. Hostility—violence. Violence   
being energy is its own virtue. Laws of motion teach us

Black people are no less confused because of our   
Blackness than we are diffused because of our
powerlessness. Man we are told is the only animal who   
smiles with his lips. The eyes however are the mirror of
the soul

The problem with love is not what we feel but what we   
wish we felt when we began to feel we should feel
something. Just as publicity is not production: seduction
is not seductive

If I could make a wish I’d wish for all the knowledge of all   
the world. Black may be beautiful Professor Micheau
says but knowledge is power. Any desirable object is
bought and sold—any neglected object declines in value.   
It is against man’s nature to be in either category

If white defines Black and good defines evil then men
define women or women scientifically speaking describe
men. If sweet is the opposite of sour and heat the
absence of cold then love is the contradiction of pain and
beauty is in the eye of the beheld

Sometimes I want to touch you and be touched in   
return. But you think I’m grabbing and I think you’re   
shirking and Mama always said to look out for men like   
you

So I go to the streets with my lips painted red and my   
eyes carefully shielded to seduce the world my reluctant   
lover

And you go to your men slapping fives feeling good   
posing as a man because you know as long as you sit   
very very still the laws of motion will be in effect






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"Marigold" by Mahogany L. Browne

Marigold 
by Mahogany L. Browne

Each flower a wilting sun
The death of a new day is never kind
Grief ain’t no song
No loss is this romantic

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"__________ my loved blacknesses & some blacknesses I knew" by Khadijah Queen

__________ my loved blacknesses & some blacknesses I knew
by Khadijah Queen

especially the rarest kind / or the kind named Priscilla G & not drowning
in bleach cream / creamy spin / but spinning blades on a black Nina
gunship in the gargantuan ghetto / not killing & maiming my brothers & potential
husbands / when the working mothers give up & when they do not
& when boys in their mad survivalist tactics
want a movie sex parade / silk-edging their sweaty fists in 30 watt lit basements
just because / death switch of a future /
none of that has to do with any kind of blackness or a crazed horizon
in the plumed summers of Los Angeles wherein television reenactments of real
fathers didn't occur enough for news sidebars / but more than generally believed /
they showed up to dailiness / cash in hand but as the school year revved up
the rest of the madness had nowhere to hide / ballooned horizon /
chemical concerns / fire up the blue turbines / fire up
unconscious intention plus the acne of ignorance / on the city's glittery filth façade
but not because of blackness / not for me /
when I would get home sometimes there might be food
sometimes just blackness I could live on / which I love






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"Power" by Audre Lorde

Power
by Audre Lorde

The difference between poetry and rhetoric
is being ready to kill
yourself
instead of your children.

I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds
and a dead child dragging his shattered black
face off the edge of my sleep
blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders
is the only liquid for miles
and my stomach
churns at the imagined taste while
my mouth splits into dry lips
without loyalty or reason
thirsting for the wetness of his blood
as it sinks into the whiteness
of the desert where I am lost
without imagery or magic
trying to make power out of hatred and destruction
trying to heal my dying son with kisses
only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.

A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens
stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood
and a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and
there are tapes to prove it. At his trial
this policeman said in his own defense
“I didn't notice the size nor nothing else
only the color”. And
there are tapes to prove that, too.

Today that 37 year old white man
with 13 years of police forcing
was set free
by eleven white men who said they were satisfied
justice had been done
and one Black Woman who said
“They convinced me” meaning
they had dragged her 4'10'' black Woman's frame
over the hot coals
of four centuries of white male approval
until she let go
the first real power she ever had
and lined her own womb with cement
to make a graveyard for our children.

I have not been able to touch the destruction
within me.
But unless I learn to use
the difference between poetry and rhetoric
my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold
or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire
and one day I will take my teenaged plug
and connect it to the nearest socket
raping an 85 year old white woman
who is somebody's mother
and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed
a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time
“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”






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"senses of heritage" by Ntozake Shange

senses of heritage
by Ntozake Shange

my grandpa waz a doughboy from carolina
the other a garveyite from lakewood
i got talked to abt the race & achievement
bout color & propriety/
nobody spoke to me about the moon

daddy talked abt music & mama bout christians
my sisters/ we
always talked & talked
there waz never quiet
trees were status symbols

i’ve taken to fog/
the moon still surprisin me






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