Haki R. Madhubuti

Who has the moral high ground? Fifteen blocks from the whitehouse on small corners in northwest, d.c. boys disguised as me rip each other’s hearts out with weapons made in china. they fight for territory. across the planet in a land where civilization was born the boys of d.c. know nothing about their distant relatives in Rwanda. they have never heard of the hutu or tutsi people. their eyes draw blanks at the mention of kigali, byumba or butare. all they know are the streets of d.c., and do not cry at funerals anymore. numbers and frequency have a way of making murder commonplace and not news unless it spreads outside of our house, block, territory. modern massacres are intraethnic. bosnia, sri lanka, burundi, nagorno-karabakh, iraq, laos, angola, liberia, and rwanda are small foreign names on a map made in europe. when bodies by the tens of thousands float down a river turning the water the color of blood, as a quarter of a million people flee barefoot into tanzania and zaire, somehow we notice. we do not smile, we have no more tears. we hold our thoughts. In deeply muted silence looking south and thinking that today nelson mandela seems much larger than he is.

June 7, 1990 breath, life after seven decades plus three years is a lot of breathing. seventy three years on this earth is a lot of taking in and giving out, is a life of coming from somewhere and for many a bunch of going nowhere. how do we celebrate a poet who has created music with words for over fifty years, who has showered magic on her people, who has redefined poetry into a black world exactness thereby giving the universe an insight into darkroads? just say she interprets beauty and wants to give life, say she is patient with phoniness and doesn’t mind people calling her gwen or sister. say she sees the genius in our children, is visionary about possibilities, sees as clearly as ray charles and stevie wonder, hears like determined elephants looking for food. say that her touch is fine wood, her memory is like an african roadmap detailing adventure and clarity, yet returning to chicago’s south evans to record the journey. say her voice is majestic and magnetic as she speaks in poetry, rhythms, song and spirited trumpets, say she is dark skinned, melanin rich, small-boned, hurricane-willed, with a mind like a tornado redefining the landscape. life after seven decades plus three years is a lot of breathing. gwendolyn, gwen, sister g has not disappointed our expectations. in the middle of her eldership she brings us vigorous language, memory, illumination. she brings breath.

in this moment of orangutans, wolves, and scavengers, of high heat redesigning the north & south poles and the wanderings of new tribes in limousines, with the confirmations of liars, thieves, and get-over artists, in the wilderness of pennsylvania avenue, standing rock, misspelled executive orders on yellow paper with crooked signatures. where are the kind language makers among us? at a time of extreme climate damage, deciphering fake news, alternative truths, and me-ism you saw the twenty-first century and left us not on your own accord or permission. you have fought and fought most of the twentieth century creating an army of poets who learned and loved language and stories of complicated rivers, seas, and oceans. where is the kind green nourishment of kale and wheatgrass? you thought, wrote, and lived poetry, knew that terror is also language based on denial, first-ism, and rich cowards. you were honey and yes to us, never ran from Black as in bones, Africa, blood and questioning yesterdays and tomorrows. we never saw you dance but you had rhythm, you were a warrior before the war, creating earth language, uncommon signs and melodies, and did not sing the songs of career slaves. keenly aware of tubman, douglass, wells-barnett, du bois, and the oversized consciousness and commitment of never-quit people religiously taking note of the bloodlust enemies of kindness we hear your last words: america if you see me as your enemy you have no friends.

she doesn’t wear costume jewelry & she knew that walt disney was/is making a fortune off false-eyelashes and that time magazine is the authority on the knee/grow. her makeup is total-real. a negro english instructor called her: “a fine negro poet.” a whi-te critic said: “she’s a credit to the negro race.” somebody else called her; “a pure negro writer.” johnnie mae, who’s a senior in high school said: “she and Langston are the only negro poets we’ve read in school and i understand her.” pee wee used to carry one of her poems around in his back pocket; the one about being cool. that was befo pee wee was cooled by a cop’s warning shot. into the sixties a word was born . . . . . . . . BLACK & with black came poets & from the poet’s ball points came: black doubleblack purpleblack blueblack beenblack was black daybeforeyesterday blackerthan ultrablack super black blackblack yellowblack niggerblack blackwhi-te- man blackthanyoueverbes ¼ black unblack coldblack clear black my momma’s blackerthanyourmomma pimpleblack fall black so black we can’t even see you black on black in black by black technically black mantanblack winter black coolblack 360degreesblack coalblack midnight black black when it’s convenient rustyblack moonblack black starblack summerblack electronblack spaceman black shoeshineblack jimshoeblack underwearblack ugly black auntjimammablack, uncleben’srice black williebest black blackisbeautifulblack i justdiscoveredblack negro black unsubstanceblack. and everywhere the lady “negro poet” appeared the poets were there. they listened & questioned & went home feeling uncomfortable/unsound & so- untogether they read/re-read/wrote & rewrote & came back the next time to tell the lady “negro poet” how beautiful she was/is & how she helped them & she came back with: how necessary they were and how they’ve helped her. the poets walked & as space filled the vacuum between them & the lady “negro poet” u could hear one of the blackpoets say: “bro, they been calling that sister by the wrong name.”

where is the poetry of resistance, the poetry of honorable defiance unafraid of lies from career politicians and business men, not respectful of journalist who write official speak void of educated thought without double search or sub surface questions that war talk demands? where is the poetry of doubt and suspicion not in the service of the state, bishops and priests, not in the service of beautiful people and late night promises, not in the service of influence, incompetence and academic clown talk?